


eulogy

by orphan_account



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Emotional Constipation, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Prostitution, implied eating disorder, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-02-28 08:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13267539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: yifan hates being a cop. zitao hates being a prostitute. maybe they can work something out





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from my aff account

 

If hindsight is always twenty/twenty, Yifan wonders how blind he actually is, especially when the sum of all of his regrets hits him like a train on snowy, cold evenings that he spends in his patrol car, rubbing his fingers together and cursing his boredom and the stagnation of his life.

 

Being a police officer is one of those things that loses novelty the older one gets, kind of like the entire prospect of growing up in general. When he was younger, it was all police cars and fire engines and the idea that he would end up ‘saving the world’ and being a hero that was crammed down his throat, along with rights and wrongs. That was all bullshit. Everybody hates cops, the pigs that ruin fun and kill people who don’t deserve to be killed, the psychological inevitable that Zimbardo determined was unavoidable. Firefighters in a small town are just volunteers who don’t mind waking up at three in the morning because the old woman on fifteenth street fell asleep with a kettle on the stove. Heros aren’t real, and rights and wrongs are just ways for people to condemn things that they’re afraid of.

 

Yifan doesn’t live in a small town—but it’s small enough that it’s boring for a police officer that isn’t some fifty-something year old retiring from work in a major city. Yifan is lucky if he gets a call about loitering or a minor drug bust once a week or so.

 

Even more boring, is that this week, he’s been scheduled for night patrols, which really just consist of driving in circles through the deserted, snowy streets of the piece-of-shit town that he grew up in, driving past the places he used to smoke pot in when he was a teenager, and turning a blind eye when he sees a bunch of new-generation high schoolers doing the same thing.

 

Fuck, Yifan thinks, rolling his fingers around in his gloves to get the blood flowing again. He fucking hates his job.

 

To occupy his mind, knowing that a Wednesday night at three in the morning isn’t going to bring much, if any at all, action, he backs out of the parking lot he was stalling in, and decides to drive up and down the streets, his tires leaving grey slush marks in the snow.

 

The car wheezes and protests movement, and Yifan doesn’t really blame it, because he’d much rather be at home in bed, snoozing away, and is sure if his car could talk, it would prefer the same.

 

Winter in this town is one of those phenomena that seems unreal to those who have never experienced it; the quirky college student tourists traveling to ‘quaint’ places on a low budget. Snow falls like a fairy-tail, and behind the frosted, yellow-tinted windows of a home with a dancing stone fireplace and cookies baking in the oven, it almost looks warm to the touch. Little white flurries, all unique and special in their own right, that land on top of people’s noses and get stuck to children’s eyelashes, fond memories of snowmen and crunching through fresh snowfall before it turns into grey, dirty sludge.

 

Surely, at some point, it was unreal to Yifan, but Winter has lost its warmth, and is only cold blue that only seems to grow colder with each passing year, with each degree he turns his heater up in his car and apartment.

 

Yifan drives without counting the streets, because he sees them in his sleep, sees them in his past, and regrettably, his future. Without realizing it, his eyes flit back and forth across the dashboard, checking out the sidewalks and how deserted they are with minimal interest.

 

He doesn’t realize it, but he’s actually looking for somebody.

 

The past few weeks, mildly interesting things have been happening on his evening patrols, especially when he drives through the older side of downtown, where it’s a little deserted and somehow, always colder.

 

There’s a battered prostitute that he sees sometimes, Huang Zitao. Yifan’s pulled him into the station overnight on loitering charges every now and again, but beyond the formality, Yifan actually brings him into holding because the kid usually looks like he’s freezing to death, and a minor strike here and there in exchange for shelter from the elements helps Yifan sleep at night.

 

Huang Zitao is a strange phenomena, like Winter and warm snow, one of those things that feels different and yet oddly familiar, but cannot be explained.

 

He’s a bubbly, bright little thing, always flirty and smiling when Yifan comes around, so much different than the others that he surrounds himself with, who seem to scatter into the alleys like startled cats whenever Yifan’s car pulls up to the corner. Zitao never cowers, never gives big, empty doll eyes and begs not to be arrested. When Yifan drives past, Zitao is always the only one to make eye contact with him. The few times Yifan has arrested Zitao, Zitao has been nothing but compliant, and it makes Yifan wonder how bad it could possibly be out on the streets.

 

Snow starts falling diagonally as the wind picks up and the flurries get better, and Yifan’s windshield wipers work overtime to keep the windshield from freezing up. This must be the blizzard that the meteorologist promised a few days ago. Hopefully it’s nothing too serious, because the only thing more boring than Yifan’s life, is Yifan’s life cooped up, snowed in.

 

The older side of town is unsettling, but Yifan knows it’s just because it’s gotten old rapidly, because as he drives past the old public library building, he faintly recalls going there a few times as a child, up until it relocated to a larger building uptown when he was about seven years old.

 

He makes a left turn at an emergency signal that’s just flashing yellow, but he only gets about halfway through the turn before he’s slamming on his brakes so hard that it makes the car jerk on the slippery street.

 

He’s found who he’s looking for.

 

Sitting along the doorframe of an old, boarded up bakery, Yifan catches Zitao, and without a second thought, he pushes out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition and the heating unit blasting, door wide open.

 

He’s found who he’s looking for, but with his heart in his throat, Yifan fears he’s found a body.

 

Yifan wishes he could say he’s one of those seasoned cops that’s seen things that have jaded him, and that seeing such a battered and beat up person is child’s play compared to the things he’s dealt with, but truly, the worst he’s ever actually seen is some high as fuck twenty-somethings living in a filthy apartment that smelled like shit and shooting up with dirty needles.

 

Well, that was the worst he’s ever seen.

 

This might take the cake, however.

 

There’s something about the way hypothermia sets in, the way a person’s lips turn blue and their fingers tremble, eyes rolling back and forth, that can make anybody paralyzed with fear and helplessness. Couple this with general malnutrition and a handful of ugly bruises, and Yifan feels like he’s looking at a corpse.

 

Zitao has always been skinny as many times as Yifan has seen him, but since it’s been a few weeks, Yifan is horrified to see how prominent the boy’s collar bones and cheekbones are, how thin his thighs are and bony his knees are, scraped up and red, pointing out of the ripped holes in his jeans. There’s hardly a thing to him.

 

Something about seeing Zitao, the always bubbly and upright troublemaker like this, tugs at Yifan’s heartstrings for some unknown reason, but perhaps something about Zitao has always tugged at Yifan’s heartstrings and made him less of an Officer Wu, and more of a friendly neighborhood cop.

 

Thankfully, Zitao is alive. When Yifan gets closer, he can see teeny little puffs of vapor from his nose, and the shallow rise and fall of his chest, and it’s a relief that Yifan didn’t realize he would feel.

 

He reaches for his flashlight, a tiny, handheld thing with a bright LED light, and clicks it on, shining it directly onto Zitao’s face. The unflattering lighting accents the unhealthy grey tinge to his skin tone, but it also rouses him, his eyes squeezing even tighter shut, brows burrowing, and he stirs slowly, obviously disoriented, before he opens his eyes. Zitao has the darkest eyes Yifan has ever seen; he can barely see the pupils dilate, but they’re pretty in their own way. They’re not empty—just a bit foggy, and ringed with smudged black eyeliner.

 

“Hmm?” Zitao hums softly, staring into the flashlight for a moment too long, before blinking rapidly and bringing his hands to his eyes and covering them. Yifan is pleased to see that Zitao at least has gloves on. It’s not enough to protect him from hypothermia or anything, but it’s a hell of a lot better than bare hands against snow.

 

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” Yifan drawls, but there’s more care and disquietude in his voice than he means there to be. He’s always been too empathetic, too soft on people he should bring in for booking, like high schoolers experimenting with weed, and in this case, a prostitute that he only ever charges with loitering.

 

Zitao blinks a few times, a wicked shiver overtaking him as it dawns on him just how cold he actually is, and yet, despite all this, he smiles at Yifan, heartstopping and sweet, though trembling and a bit frozen. “Officer Wu,” Zitao mumbles deliriously, blinking slowly.

 

It’s then, when Yifan notices the little snowflakes that are stuck to Zitao’s eyelashes. And then he becomes aware of how cold it is outside, and how the flurries from earlier have very quickly become bigger and stickier, and an epiphany of compelled action leads Yifan to shrugging his jacket off and draping it around Zitao’s frail shoulders.

 

The station is on the other side of town, but Yifan doesn’t mind making the trip. He won’t even charge Zitao this time around—he just wants to get the other into shelter, because there’s something in the back of his mind telling him that if he doesn’t take Zitao in tonight, Zitao might not survive the night.

 

“Can you stand up, or do I have to carry you?” Yifan asks, sounding more cynical and mean than he intends to, and he curses himself internally, but Zitao doesn’t seem to have any qualms, he just nods, and his cold fingers tighten around the jacket draped across his shoulders.

 

“I’m good to walk—” Zitao starts but he interrupts himself, voice becoming small and swallowed by a terrible, wet cough that seems to rattle back and forth in his lungs and shake his entire frame, the snowflakes falling off of his frozen lashes as he lifts a hand to cover his mouth, wheezing through the coughing fit.

 

It’s one of those coughs that is painful to listen to, let alone endure, and it makes Yifan wince and wonder how long Zitao has been coughing like that.

 

Fuck—it could be pneumonia.

 

Only a few hours later, and Yifan fears he might’ve stumbled upon a corpse, and though he hates his job, he thanks his impeccable timing for bringing him to Zitao at such an hour.

  
  
  
 

Yifan should've brought Zitao to the station, or a clinic, but  both of those places were at least twenty-five minutes away, and the snow was becoming less forgiving, the wind was picking up, and he panicked as Zitao coughed and faded in and out of consciousness in the back seat of his cruiser, so instead, Yifan ends up bringing a prostitute home.

 

He pulls his car into the garage of his apartment, thanking his lucky stars that he isn't on the second or third floor, because he doesn't think Zitao can make it even a moment longer in his damp clothes.

 

Zitao mumbles nonsense as Yifan pulls him from the back of the car, glove-covered fingers clinging half-heartedly to Yifan’s shirt, and Yifan only catches a few words as they fall from Zitao’s lips, but without context they’re just little garbles of sound.

 

Yifan’s apartment isn't welcoming. The furniture is all white and grey, hardly a splash of color anywhere, and while it’s not uncomfortably clean, it's not very homey and cozy, either. There are no warm winters or freshly baked cookies in Yifan’s apartment.

 

“Hey,” Yifan taps Zitao’s cheek lightly just after he sets the rogue down on the couch in the living room. If he didn’t know any better, Yifan would’ve thought Zitao to be drunk or high, the film over Zitao’s eyes has only grown thicker, and he stares at Yifan with a silly, tiny smile wearing his lips, and in all honesty, it makes Yifan quite uncomfortable.

 

“I’ll get you something to wear,” Yifan clears his throat and excuses himself for a moment, recalling the exact reason why he brought Zitao here in the first place—the blizzard and onset of hypothermia plaguing the younger. If Yifan remembers correctly from Zitao’s files, he is twenty-one years old—but, such is a digression.

 

He rifles through his closet, looking for warm clothes that will fit Zitao, and comes to the conclusion that everything he has is going to be a bit oversized, but that doesn’t seem too bad an omen. He grabs a grey pair of sweatpants with one of the local high school logos on them, and a thick sweater that Yifan is pretty sure he bought on clearance at H&M a couple years back. He also grabs a pair of thick socks, and a beanie. Basic first-aid training tickles the base of Yifan’s brain as he recollects how to treat hypothermia.

 

Zitao’s heart-aching cough hurts Yifan’s ears, and Yifan pulls himself out of his daydreams and musings and rushes back into the living room, folded clothes in tow, and prays he’s not about to walk in on Zitao coughing up blood or anything extreme like that, because the snow has turned into sleet and the streets aren’t going to be safe until high noon, maybe.

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Yifan grabs Zitao’s shoulders, steadying him, for the force of his heaving has tipped him onto his side. “Breathe with me, Zitao,” Yifan commands, voice solid as Zitao wheezes and gasps, his breath short from the hiccuping, wet coughing fit. Police training really comes in handy during moments like these, when Zitao’s eyes are wide with panic because he can’t seem to catch his breath, and Yifan can keep a level head and calm him down again.

 

Zitao’s fingers are shaking as he lifts his hands and grabs onto Yifan for added stability, but his eyes are wet and teary, and he keeps gasping, but his breath is irregular and unsteady, and there’s a pain in his chest—a constriction that feels like the weight of a thousand suns pressing his ribcage in and keeping his lungs from inflating properly.

 

“Breathe,” Yifan keeps saying. “Look at me and breathe, don’t panic.”

 

His voice is hard, but gentle enough to make Zitao remember why he’s so fond of Yifan in the first place, why he never cowers when Yifan’s car circles slowly around his corner, why he strikes conversation in the back of the cruiser and waves when Yifan drives by, smiling as though he is seeing an old friend in passage. It’s so meaningful to Zitao, the tiny bit of humanity and amicability that Yifan shows to him, because over the years, Zitao has forgotten what it is like to have a friend—to have somebody who doesn’t sweet talk but leave bruises shaped like handprints and belt buckles on his body, or charm him with riches and luxuries, only to spit back in his face.

 

Somehow, through it all, Zitao starts breathing normally again, or as normal as he can with the state of his health, and he shivers, because without the distraction of his cough, he realizes how cold he actually is.

 

Fuck—he’s so cold.

 

Yifan, content with Zitao’s steady breathing pattern, turns around and grabs the clothes, pressing them into Zitao’s trembling hands.

 

“Here, change,” He encourages, even though Zitao only stares blankly at the clothes and then looks back at Yifan—but it’s okay, Yifan’s patience is thick.

 

“You’ll feel better in dry clothes. Change,” Yifan stands up, intending to give Zitao his privacy. “I’ll set up the bedroom for you, okay?”

 

Zitao looks at Yifan as though he’s staring at a puzzle that he cannot decipher, and Yifan hates the feeling of those eyes burning into his back.

 

God, what a colossal fuck-up this night is turning out to be.

  
 

Zitao is exhausted. The past few weeks have been rougher on him than he would ever dare to admit, with his sales coming in slower and his boss growing more irate and upset with him as the days grow darker and colder and his pockets grow emptier. Zitao feels caged, unsure of what it means to be normal, what it feels like to not feel the constant ache of his body as his soul bleeds out and his smile fades into a carcass dressed as a caricature.

 

Business got worse when he got sick, because nobody wants a whore with a cough, somebody who can’t even go halfway down a cock without coughing and wheezing until there’s no breath or energy left, and in turn, Zitao’s life has gotten worse, his contract nowhere near payoff or expiration, which leaves him pickpocketing the poor, yet not as poor as him, in shitty bars, and twirling aimlessly around the same streets, blowing the same guys, taking the same beatings, for the same miniscule amount of money ripped from his hands nearly as soon as he gets it.

 

How he became entangled in such an awful game of life is beyond him, because up until recently, Zitao had dreams—real dreams, of doing real things. Nothing too impressive, for though he is a dreamer, he has always been somewhat of a realist as well, but at least he had aspirations.

 

His aspirations are nothing more than blood in the snow.

 

There’s a lot of questions he wants to ask Officer Wu, but he’s too weak, too tired and grateful for heating units and thick sweatpants and blankets draped across his freezing body to question anything right now.

 

Sometime in the past handful of years, Zitao had forgotten that people actually sleep in beds with sheets that are clean, having grown accustomed to dirty, bare mattresses in motels and benches in parks where nobody can see him or hurt him while he tries to sleep.

 

It’s so warm in Yifan’s bedroom, and Zitao’s body is so weary and destroyed from neglect, that his illness and exhaustion overtakes him as soon as he’s laid amongst the blankets. Deliriously, he thinks he mumbles a weepy, ‘thank you, officer wu’, before falling prey to slumber, but he isn’t so sure.

  
 

Yifan takes the couch, but stares at the ceiling for a good two hours before he falls asleep. In the morning, he isn’t sure if he should take Zitao to the hospital or the station, and he isn’t even sure the roads will be clear enough for them to even leave, which might pose disastrous if Zitao wakes in worse condition than he went down.

 

Fuck, what a mess Yifan has gotten himself in, entangled in red thread that he cannot even see, yet feels so tightly bound.

 

He falls asleep around five in the morning, considering it had been three in the morning when he picked up Zitao and brought him back.

 

Around ten in the morning, Yifan wakes with a start, because there is something on top of him, and it takes him a moment to even register what is happening, because Zitao is on top of him, pressing shaky, warm kisses along his neck and jaw, and when it dawns on him what is happening, Yifan is mortified.

 

He presses against Zitao’s body, trying to ignore the way Zitao’s bones feel, so prominent, even beneath the thick sweater. He really is starving, and it makes Yifan even more sure that Zitao would not have survived the night.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Yifan spits, horrified, but coming across as angry, because he doesn’t know how to express the storm surging inside of his heart.

 

He has always found Zitao attractive, even with the bruises and ugly things etched into his body, and he hates to think that he’s pushing Zitao away not because he doesn’t want him, but because he doesn’t want him like this.

 

Zitao sits back on the couch, staring at Yifan with wide, bewildered eyes, like nobody has ever told him no before. It’s terribly clear that Zitao is still ill—he looks awful. His skin is still pale, and while no longer tinged a sickly blue as it was the night before, he still looks as though he should be at a hospital, not trying to jump Yifan.

 

Zitao isn’t taken aback by Yifan’s tone, but rather, the words, and his brows bow inward with slight confusion, and out of a nervous habit, he begins picking at the sleeves of the sweater Yifan loaned him.

 

“Isn’t—” Zitao begins, but pauses to cough into his sleeve, Yifan’s eyes wide and boring straight into him. “Isn’t this what you want?”

 

Yifan suddenly feels the strongest urge to vomit.

 

Coupled with the way he’s tugging at his sleeves, the innocence in Zitao’s voice is too much to handle. This boy has equated his entire worth to sex and being fucked like a toy, something expendable and disposable, and it upsets Yifan to think that Zitao would think that this—some sort of anonymous, quick fuck—is something that he would want. Does Yifan really come across as one of the sick fuckers that leave their bruises on Zitao’s skin and shove their dicks down his throat, throwing far too little money at him once they are finished?

 

“No.” Yifan says firmly, running his hands through his hair. “Jesus, no.”

 

Zitao’s eyes start to get filmy, and Yifan wonders if he really hasn’t ever been told no.

 

He looks at Yifan, brows furrowed in, lips trembling as he opens his mouth, only to close it seconds later, words stolen from him. He looks as though he really wants to ask, what do you mean no?, looks as though he’s so terribly offended and upset that Yifan doesn’t want to use his body, like his one purpose in the world will go unfulfilled.

 

“B-but,” Zitao stutters, confidence gone, and his cheeks bloom a rosy red that, under literally any other circumstances, anything else in the world, Yifan would’ve found cute.

 

“You brought me here…” Zitao says slowly. “I thought you… wanted me…” the way he stresses and tremolos his words, Yifan knows he’s about to start crying, and God, it’s too fucking early for all of this—it’s snowmageddon outside, and he has a sick, tearful prostitute on his lap, about to cry because they're not going to fuck.

 

“I brought you here because you were going to fucking die out there, not because I want to fuck you.”

 

For some reason, maybe it is Yifan’s tone, or maybe it is the words themselves—Yifan will never actually know—but this makes tears spill over the cheeks of the little rogue, and Yifan softens, realizing his approach to things may have been too combative. Zitao is awfully sensitive for a street whore.

 

“Hey, no, don’t cry—” Yifan cooes, voice going down several tones, soft and kind, and he reaches forward to brush away the tears falling like little crystals of snow from Zitao’s eyes, but Zitao flinches so violently that it startles Yifan into drawing his hand back, snapping the appendage back to his chest.

 

Zitao stands up abruptly, maybe too abruptly, because he stumbles, and reflexively, Yifan reaches out and tries to steady him, but Zitao jerks away from that, too.

 

“I’m sorry,” He repeats over and over again, stumbling back, keeping his eyes low. He’s crying, and it tugs at Yifan’s heart to see him so upset, but Yifan finds himself paralyzed to the couch in his own confusion.

 

“S-sorry,” Zitao stutters, and before Yifan can say or do anything, he takes off, back towards the bedroom, like a startled animal, the door slamming shut behind him.

 

Yifan stares blankly at the bedroom door for a while, contemplating calling out Zitao’s name, but deciding against it. He’ll check on him in a little while, when things are cooler and a tad less awkward.

 

With a heavy, exasperated sigh, he falls back against the couch, hands covering his face, and groans into them, conflicted and unsure of what to do.

 

Fuck, he fucking hates his job.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> get rid of it

When Zitao was just a child, he vaguely remembers words coming to him in song. His mother, formerly a shadow of white light and warmth, just like the blanket he was swaddled in as a baby, blurs in his earliest memories. Zitao hates himself for that—he cannot remember what she looks like, but he remembers vividly the soothing hum of her voice, so sweet and smooth and high-pitched, yet without being piercing. He remembers melodies and lyrics—and his favorite song was one about the most  _ beautiful  _ woman in all of China. 

 

She was a myth, known across the nation for her stunning and devastating looks, skin as fair as snow and hair long and inky black, like calligraphy spilled across parchment. Looking to her was forbidden, for she was so beautiful that a single glance could cause a city to fall before it’s knees, a second, and the nation would crumble. 

 

Zitao always felt bad for her. What a lonely life she would live, isolated from the world because she is too beautiful and pure for the corruption. When he was younger, he was very grateful that, with his tan skin and short, dark brown hair, he looked nothing like her. 

 

As Zitao grew older, the melody grew forgotten as the chaos that surrounded the beautiful girl became a song of his own, the lyrics twisting into a narrative of his own life.

 

Often, he was hailed by his  _ boss _ (Zitao liked to call him that—it sounded much better than what Siwon actually was to him) as the most beautiful creature in Seoul, thus resulting in Zitao’s unfortunate popularity amongst undesirables. Though his skin is not fair and his hair is not long and obsidian, his world crumbled as a result of his reputation. 

 

Sometimes, he thinks he can faintly recall his mother’s singing, but he hates himself, because it is not clear. 

  
  
  
  
  


With Zitao hidden away in his bedroom, thoroughly startled, and the snow and sleet coming down sideways, Yifan busies himself in the kitchen, making a quick but hearty meal while he has the time. He wonders, only for a brief moment, what kind of food Zitao prefers, but decides that something easy on the stomach, yet filling and nutrient-heavy, would be best for the boy’s emaciated bones, and goes to work preparing a simple rice porridge. 

 

The simplicity of the dish allows time for Yifan’s mind to wander, and as he idly stirs the broth, little bits of squishy white rice sticking to the wooden spoon, he gnaws on his lower lip and stares into the pot as it swirls and thickens. 

 

He has probably—no,  _ undoubtedly _ —terrified Zitao, or at least terrified what few parts of the boy’s mind that are healthy. 

 

Yifan knows Zitao’s file like the back of his hand, because of his devastating habit of helping the boy out whenever he sees him stuck, shivering in the cold. A few petty theft crimes here and there—last Summer, Zitao was a frequent patron of a convenience store that has since boarded up its doors, stealing handfuls of day-old sandwiches or rotisserie hot dogs, and bottles of water, usually about twice a week. Yifan remembers having to arrest Zitao on more than one occasion, and bring him into the station for booking.  

 

_ “Do you have seventy-five cents?” _ Zitao had asked him once, hands cuffed behind his back, sitting across from Yifan, a metal table between them. 

 

Yifan had stared strangely at Zitao, eyes narrowing at such a peculiar question. 

 

_ “Why?” Yifan drawled out, twirling the lid of a pen in his hand, Zitao’s file in front of him. The said convict only shrugs, taking his lower lip between his teeth and looking down shyly. He looks so sweet and innocent that Yifan almost wants to uncuff him and apologize for the inconvenience. Zitao certainly doesn’t look or act like a criminal—just a kid stuck in a bad situation.  _

 

_ As if answering the question for him, Zitao’s stomach rumbles tersely, and in the silence of the room, Yifan is startled by just how  _ **_loud_ ** _ it is—lord, when was the last time this kid ate a proper meal?  _

 

_ Yifan recalls the untouched sandwich-half he had for lunch that he threw in the trash earlier, and the apple that had been a little too bruised for his taste that he had also thrown in the garbage, and feels sick at the wasted food.  _

 

_ (He tries not to think about how Zitao could’ve eaten it.)  _

 

_ He had arrested Zitao about an hour ago, having caught the boy standing behind the gas station he had just robbed for the seventh time that month, scarfing down a rather sad and unappetizing-looking hotdog. He had only eaten a little less than half of it when Yifan slapped it out of his hand and onto the ground, and wrestled the boy’s hands behind his back (though Zitao had hardly put up a fight. If anything, he looked more upset and near tears at the sight of his food, wasted on the dirty ground than at the fact that he was being arrested).  _

 

_ Zitao’s cheeks flush red, embarrassed at the loudness of his tummy. Yifan is sure that if his hands were free, Zitao would’ve covered his face. He seems like the shy type.  _

 

_ “There’s a vending machine in the hallway…” Zitao hints sheepishly, too ashamed of his own hunger and inability to feed himself to properly ask for food. He should’ve eaten faster in the alleyway, or at least asked Officer Wu if he could take the hotdog with him.  _

 

_ Zitao has never been good at begging, though. Not when begging for money, not when begging for food, not when begging somebody to stop. Things never seem to go his way. _

 

_ Yifan knows he should say no, because criminals have no requests, but Zitao doesn’t seem like a criminal—Yifan doesn’t think he could ever consider Zitao a criminal, and he bites the inside of his cheek, knowing that he absolutely shouldn’t be granting Zitao this liberty, but finds himself fishing in his pocket anyways, pulling out a dollar.   _

 

_ “What do you want?” Yifan asks, somewhat disgruntled, but putting on a front entirely. He doesn’t mind doing this for Zitao—but Zitao can’t know that.  _

 

_ Zitao, across the table, looks as though he might start crying at the premise of eating something. “Anything,” He says quickly, voice trembling. “Thank you so much—anything at all!”  _

 

_ Yifan just nods, and scoots out of his chair, the metal scraping against the floor and leaving unsightly scuff marks, and tells Zitao he’ll be right back.  _

 

_ He comes back only a few moments later with a candy bar and a bag of chips, wishing that the vending machine had healthier options, because Zitao definitely needs nutrients in his diet, and tosses the food on the table.  _

 

_ He crouches behind Zitao with the keys to the handcuffs, and unlocks them, pulling them from the bony wrists, and as Zitao reaches for the candy bar first, Yifan thinks he really does see tears in the younger’s eyes as he takes that first bite and thanks Yifan profusely for being so kind.  _

 

_ Yifan tries not to time it, but it only takes Zitao just under a minute and a half to finish off the candy bar and chips. _

  
  


Zitao’s other charges are mostly solicitation, which Yifan had charged him with just so he could get Zitao out of the cold on bitter nights. A holding cell, while certainly no room at the Hamptons, was much better than the benches and alleyways that Yifan often saw Zitao sleeping in.

 

Yifan’s humanity gets the better of him with Zitao—his supervisor, Junmyeon, has often commented,  _ “Zitao, again?” _ when Yifan pulls into the station with Zitao in the back of his car. He can’t help himself, Yifan. Leaving Zitao to fight the world alone seems a lot like leaving a puppy alone, and Yifan couldn’t live with himself if, for some reason, Zitao disappeared and his body was found in a ditch somewhere. 

 

The porridge is finished, having thickened up nicely, and Yifan ladles it into two bowls, and decides to fight his demons head on, holding the food in each hand, and starting towards his bedroom. 

 

Of course, Zitao is passed out, wrapped up like a child in the blankets.

 

Yifan sets the bowls down on the nightstand, and, at the risk of appearing totally and completely invasive, stares at Zitao for a moment. 

 

As he sleeps, Zitao’s fingers and hands twitch, clutching and unclutching the blankets, pulling them tighter to his body as though he’s having a nightmare, and Yifan doesn’t think he would like to know what Zitao is dreaming about—or if they are even dreams at all. 

 

A moment longer, and Yifan decides he should wake Zitao before the food gets cold and his efforts on cooking are wasted, and very gently and tentatively, he reaches down and lightly,  _ very  _ lightly, shakes Zitao’s shoulder, just enough to rouse him without causing alarm. The last thing he wants is to scare Zitao’s delicate heart into arrhythmia. 

 

Of course, he manages to startle Zitao anyways, and the younger wakes disoriented, clutching the blankets to his chest and sitting up in the bed with wide, terrified eyes. He looks around quickly, and Yifan doesn’t miss the way Zitao’s eyes lock on the bedroom door for just a split second longer than they hesitate on anything else in the room.

 

Yifan’s academy training is his second nature, and he instinctively raises his hands just high enough to show that he isn’t carrying any weapons, but not high enough for Zitao think that Yifan may hit him (Yifan would  _ never _ , but he has the sickly feeling that Zitao’s aversion to quick movements is a learned behavior). 

 

“Hey, relax, okay?” Yifan says softly. He’s reciting a script, but it feels much more real in the moment—like all the other times he’s said this to victims of abuse or accidents were just practice runs, and right here, right now, in his bedroom with a  _ prostitute _ , is the real deal. There’s too much feeling in his heart, and it’s bleeding into his voice and expressions, and he hates it. 

 

“You’re safe, I’m not going to hurt you.” Yifan promises, lowering his hands to his sides. Zitao still sits, looking like a deer caught in headlights in the middle of the bed, the atmosphere bruising his already disoriented and insecure mindset. 

 

Yifan wonders if Zitao remembers what happened this morning. 

 

“Why’d you bring me here?” Zitao asks suddenly, his voice a bit hoarse, deeper than Yifan knows his tone to be—Zitao is surprisingly soft-spoken and intelligent when he speaks (surprising only because he is a prostitute, but Yifan supposes his first mistake is judging a book by it’s cover, especially since Zitao’s cover is wilted and warped into an unclear depiction of the words within).  

 

It’s not the question Yifan was expecting, but it’s certainly better than Zitao bursting into tears, or having a violent outburst, so Yifan thanks his lucky stars for the lack of drama. Though clearly bewildered, Zitao seems to have his wits about him—it definitely isn’t his first time waking up in an unfamiliar place, though this time, he’s pleasantly surprised by the company instead of disgusted as he usually is. 

 

“There’s a blizzard outside and you were probably going to die in it.” Yifan says rather bluntly, and Zitao blinks a few times in surprise, pursing his kittenish lips together, brows creasing in the middle. 

 

“ _ No _ .” Zitao says very slowly. He looks to the nightstand, where the steaming porridge is sitting, it’s scent enticing his empty stomach, and his mouth waters at the sight of it, though he doesn’t dare ask. Even though there are two bowls, Yifan very well could intend to eat them both in front of Zitao. Though uncharacteristic, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time such a cruel tease had been done to him. 

 

Yifan, however, finds humor in Zitao’s spirit, and catching his gaze, he leans forward and pushes the bowl nearest to Zitao just a little bit closer, encouraging him to take it. 

 

Zitao looks at him as if to say,  _ “Can I really have it?” _ , to which Yifan only nods, and inches it closer. 

 

Nonverbal as can be, Zitao doesn’t have to be told twice, and his hands drop the blanket and snatch the bowl from the nightstand so quickly that if Yifan were to blink, he would’ve missed it. 

 

Zitao eats like a man dying (though maybe he is), shoveling spoonful after spoonful into his mouth, and Yifan can only stand there for a minute, watching in complete awe as Zitao eats quicker than he thought a person could. It’s like Zitao is expecting Yifan to snatch the bowl from him at any second, so he’s eating as much as he can before that happens. 

 

“Slow down,” Yifan finally says, snapping out of it and pulling the chair from his desk until it is facing the bed, and Zitao’s cheeks flush a light shade of pink—actually, a nice touch of color upon his pale skin. The food seems to be helping the color return to his face, though. 

 

“Sorry,” Zitao says through a mouthful, obeying Yifan and eating a bit slower. He can’t help it, however. Food is such a delicacy to him, especially warm, fresh, filling foods. He can’t remember the last time he ate something so tasty and warming. The little pizza pockets he steals from gas stations hardly count—they’re all usually stale and old, and he can only grab two or three at a time undetected, not nearly enough to fill his tummy. 

 

He polishes off the bowl in record time, moaning happily at the warmth that fills his belly, and looks shyly at the other bowl, meant for Yifan, that is sitting, untouched and steaming, on the nightstand.

 

Yifan, fascinated by Zitao’s behavior, pushes the full bowl of congee towards him. 

 

“It’s all yours,” Yifan says, and to further encourage him, he takes the empty bowl from Zitao.

 

The second time around, Zitao seems to enjoy it more, taking slower bites now that he knows Yifan isn't going to pull some cruel joke on him and take the food away when he is halfway finished and still hungry.

 

The taste is unbelievable on Zitao’s deprived tongue—he has forgotten the rich, savory milkiness of congee, and how filling and satisfying rice can be when it is fresh, not stuck together in cold bundles from thrown-away takeout containers that he salvages from trash cans sometimes. 

 

Weary of silence, Yifan tries to start a conversation. Zitao isn't a  _ complete _ stranger, but they have never interacted outside of their  _ Officer and Perpetrator _ roles, so it is understandably a bit strained between the two as they struggle to figure out just how much of their true selves to expose to the other under such strange circumstance. 

 

“Do you feel sick?” Yifan asks, noticing that through all of the excitement, Zitao hasn't coughed his nasty wet cough. 

 

Zitao pauses in his eating, cocking his head slightly to the side, as if assessing his own body for the first time since waking up. 

 

“I feel the same as I always do,” Zitao finally announces without theatrics, and continues spooning the porridge to his lips.

 

Yifan swallows thickly, and for some reason, guilt settles heavily across his stomach and drops his heart, as though it is  _ his  _ fault Zitao is like this. How long has Zitao been this ill?

 

“When the snow eases up, I’ll take you to a hospital—”

 

“ _ No! _ ” Zitao suddenly cries out, louder than Yifan has ever heard him speak before. Startled by the outburst, Yifan scoots his chair a few paces back, in the unlikely event that Zitao decides to strike out against him. 

 

The sudden cry makes Zitao’s throat burn even more, and he regrets having wasted his voice, and the taste of blood tingles the back of his tongue, but he couldn’t help it. 

 

Hospitals, he hates. There’s too much judgement between those walls, because they ask questions that Zitao doesn’t want to answer, but feels as though he has no choice—because in reality, Zitao has never,  _ ever  _ had a choice. Deep inside, he supposes he hates hospitals because he’s ashamed. He’s filthy, disease ridden, abused—he’s  _ terrified  _ of what will come back if they test him, terrified of the sexually transmitted diseases that he will undoubtedly have, an inevitable downfall of his profession (as if that is the only thing driving people away from prostituting themselves for nothing), terrified that they’ll see the track marks in his arms and ask why he’s destroying himself with drugs, but they won’t believe him when he tells them that society destroyed him. 

 

Pushed to the breaking point countless times, Zitao didn’t have any other choice, didn’t have any other way out, and the euphoria of a needle in his veins helped. 

 

For a little bit.

 

But he doesn’t want to go to a hospital, because that’ll make it harder for him to deny just how bad his situation has gotten, even if it has all been completely out of his control. 

 

He doesn’t realize the transgression in his stare, the mist in his eyes that makes them water, makes his lower lashes heavy, and Yifan, watching each stitch unravel, feels his heart crack and bleed gold. 

 

Zitao is fragile, Yifan had always known that. Definitely, he is stronger than anybody Yifan knows, and he has never doubted the resiliency of Zitao’s spirit, but there’s a sadness that Yifan thinks Zitao cannot shake, heaviness in his heart and darkness in his soul that will probably always be there, phantoms leaving touches on his skin and haunting his memories. 

 

“Why are you so scared?” Yifan finds himself asking, his voice so tender and gentle that it’s nearly unrecognizable to himself, and certainly inappropriate, but Yifan doesn’t care anymore, not at this point. His relationship with Zitao has always been inappropriate, and what line can be crossed that wasn’t drawn in the first place? 

 

Zitao stares at the floor, regression somewhere unknown, the half-empty bowl of porridge in his lap as he begins to wring his hands together, bony fingers twisting around the skin of his wrists. 

 

“Zitao,” Yifan tries again, and with Zitao so far gone into a different world, Yifan tests his limits. Zitao is no  _ real  _ threat to him—a sickly, barely one-hundred pound prostitute cannot do any harm—and moving slowly, like he would with a startled animal, he gently leans forward and removes the bowl, setting it on the bedside table (he’ll get a fresh serving of food into Zitao later), and sits tentatively beside Zitao. 

 

Zitao hardly moves, his lips trembling, eyes so wet with unshed tears that a glossy film has formed over them, and he continues to stare at the floor, pouting. 

 

Yifan can see he is trying  _ so hard _ not to crumble, and it upsets him more than he would ever care to admit. 

 

There’s no real  _ reason  _ for Yifan to feel so attached to Zitao—he doesn’t  _ see himself _ in Zitao, like some twisted cliche, doesn’t consider himself a hero or anything more than a miserable human being—he has no connection, no ties to Zitao.

 

And yet, he does. Connected by strings, tied in red, Yifan feels compelled to do anything he can to help Zitao, as though his entire miserable career was really just a path that would eventually lead him right to Zitao. 

 

Yifan leans close to Zitao, hunching over so he can see the younger’s wet eyes. It’s so painful to see those unshed tears; Yifan would much rather Zitao weep and get it over with, like the pain of ripping off a bandaid. 

 

“Hey,” He says again, daring to place a hand along Zitao’s back, trembling at the feeling of his vertebrae through the sweater Yifan had given him. “Why are you so scared? What’s wrong with the hospital, Zitao?” Yifan asks kindly, softly, and finds himself biting back calling Zitao  _ baby _ , even if it’s just in the heat of the moment. 

 

Zitao bites hard on his lower lip. 

 

He wishes Yifan would just be mean to him—it would hurt far less than such kindness.

 

“I—” Zitao’s voice is thick, and with only a few syllables, the tears roll heavy down his cheeks, and choke up his already sore throat. “I just  _ don’t want to go _ .” Zitao whines out, voice pathetic and heart wrenching. 

 

If refusal to go to the hospital means Officer Wu is going to kick him back onto the streets, then so be it. Zitao hadn’t even  _ needed  _ help in the first place. 

 

(He did, desperately need help, but his twisted schema of care and love has pushed him to believe that not caring at all is normalcy, perhaps even all that he deserves. In such a ruined world, surely Zitao does not deserve the sympathy of the very force that condemns what he does and makes it such an ugly business, does he? The very thought arises such a paradox within Zitao, and he prefers to leave difficult matters away.)

 

However, Yifan thinks no such thing. He knows that, without proper treatment, Zitao may very will in fact  _ die _ , and while he would absolutely love to bundle Zitao up and shovel the snow out of his driveway to give him access to drive Zitao to a hospital, so he can get his wicked awful cough and fever checked out, he won’t do anything without Zitao’s consent.

 

Quite enough has been done to Zitao without consent; Yifan is all too happy to keep his name and actions from being added to such a list. 

 

“Okay.” He says softly after a moment, and Zitao looks up at him in surprise, clearly having expected a fight or argument to transpire. Instead, Yifan simply stands up and takes the two bowls of congee from the nightstand, one of them still a quarter full, but cold and congealed. 

 

“Oh…  _ okay?” _ Zitao echoes back tentatively, lowering his head as he speaks, reminiscent of a frightened animal, and though Yifan is no stranger to such behavior in his profession, it still makes his stomach turn uncomfortably for Zitao to be behaving around him in such a manner. 

 

He knows, Yifan, that he is not the most  _ approachable  _ of individuals, but is he really so terrifying that Zitao is afraid of him? Too afraid of him to even make eye contact under such casual circumstances? 

 

Yifan bites his tongue, keeping his words tucked away behind closed lips. 

 

“I won’t make you go to the hospital.” Yifan agrees, somewhat begrudgingly. Of course, if Zitao worsens, Yifan will force him to go to the hospital. He is not going to sit idly by and allow such a kind soul to cripple and wither away before his eyes. 

 

He has watched enough of Zitao fade—he will not let any more of the boy crush into stardust. 

 

“But,” 

 

Zitao looks up at the  _ but _ , and his heart drops into his stomach. Of course, he can never truly get what he wants—he has  _ never  _ gotten anything for  _ free _ , and almost chides himself for believing that Yifan would be any different. He expects anything—maybe Yifan wants a blowjob, wants to see Zitao down on his knees. He can choke on it, like a  _ good boy _ —if that truly is what Yifan desires. Or perhaps  he wants to fuck Zitao, cold and cruel and heartless, until there is nothing left of Zitao to break, and he lays, limply, whimpering and clutching the softest sheets that he has ever felt. 

 

Zitao blinks back more tears. He’s so  _ tired  _ of being used. 

 

“But?” Zitao asks, voice airy thin, like the teeny chirping of a bird, or tingling of broken windchimes. 

 

Yifan opens the bedroom door, about to leave to return the bowls to the kitchen and get Zitao a fresh helping of soup and medicine. 

 

“You have to talk to me.” Yifan requests, non negotiable. “I want to know about you, Zitao,” His eyes soften. “ _ Everything _ .” 

 

He backs out of the room, and the door closes behind him with a soft click. 

 

Zitao clutches the blankets in his trembling, bony fingers, and for some reason, the weight of Yifan’s words hits him hard, and he chokes out a sob, swallowed as best as he could against the sore ache of his throat. 

 

Everything? 

 

_ Everything? _ Zitao is not even sure he can properly recall everything that has happened to him, the past several years all a frozen, untapped reservoir of toxic water and unsafe memories. Can Zitao even trust Yifan with _ everything _ ?

  
  


He supposes, in the end, that he does not have a choice. 

 

But really, when does he  _ ever _ ?  


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dont make me love you

Yifan revokes his demand. 

 

In the kitchen, he stares at the bowls in the sink, half-full of water and the congealed remnants of congee, and runs his tongue across the back of his teeth. He leans heavily over the counter, head hanging over the sink as he stares at the rice, swimming in swirling water, and finds something so nauseating and disgusting about the dishes. His fingers clutch the edge of the countertop, and he breathes— _ one, two, three _ —in through his nose and out— _ one, two, three, four, five— _ through his mouth.

 

In not even ten hours, Yifan’s entire life has fallen to shit, and though he doesn’t mind Zitao—not really—he can already feel the overwhelming responsibilities and problems surrounding his current attachment to Zitao as they create a longing in his soul and mind for boring nights. Yifan knows that his days are about to become far more interesting, because he had gotten far too personal, his conscience is too strong and nagging for him to pass Zitao back into the hands of the elements once the snow clears to a tolerable level. 

 

Yifan clears his throat and shakes his head, pushing away from the countertop and preparing another bowl of congee for Zitao, and grabs a cold medication containing pseudoephedrine, knowing that it’ll make Zitao a little sleepy, but hopefully work wonders for the boy’s illness. 

 

When Yifan re-enters the bedroom, he is faced with an issue that should make him turn away in disgust, but in actuality, only makes his heart deflate with sorrow, and his police academy training is ringing alarms in his head, urging him to stop empathizing so much, but be damned, he ignores indifference, wiggling it from his heart and replacing it with the tendrils of compassion, unfamiliar to him, yet guiding him into all of the wrong places with the right person.

 

Just as Zitao has been called a stain in the hearts and lives of many, his reputation follows him into the only sanctuary he has ever known, even if temporarily, and through the anxious wringing of his hands, Zitao has torn loose a scab over an ulcer atop a vein in his left hand, blood flowing horrifyingly quickly, queasing his stomach, and staining the pillows and blankets and sleeves of the sweater he has been loaned. 

 

The appearance of the blood sent Zitao’s worn soul into a panic. He has dirtied Yifan’s clothes, dirtied Yifan’s home, humiliated himself, unlovable and unattractive—and  _ now, now _ he has bled his soiled blood all over Yifan’s pretty, white, Egyptian cotton sheets. Tears fill his eyes and spill across his dull cheeks, eyes alight with panic and sorrow, and when Yifan walks in, expecting tales of plight and misery, Zitao cries harder. 

 

“I-I’m sorry.” He whimpers pathetically, voice teeny and trembling, cracking out of fear that Yifan will grow irate, if he hasn't already. Zitao is trembling just as his voice is, and his hands are stamped with the watery consistency of his blood, and as he stares down at his hands, he wonders when they became so crippled and damaged, and why the blood  _ just keeps coming _ . 

 

Yifan is dumbfounded, struck entirely by how bizarre the situation at hand truly is, and stares stupidly at Zitao for a moment, feeling such a tremendous ache in his heart. Yifan  _ knows _ he needs to get the first aid kit from the bathroom and sanitize the wound—hopefully he has butterfly stitches on hand—but he also knows that Zitao will probably weep upon the application of rubbing alcohol in his wounds, and Yifan’s heart aches like it is being squeezed between Zitao’s boney fingers at the thought of causing the boy any more pain and suffering. 

 

It’s the panicked, undoubtedly frightened whimper from Zitao that snaps Yifan out of it. 

 

“It won't stop.” Zitao confesses with horror, his heart throbbing. Truthfully, the ulcer, though burst, doesn't hurt. Zitao has so much chronic, persistent,  _ sharp _ pain that his body seems to have ceased to register new injuries unless they are broken bones or beaten faces. 

 

Yifan answers his instinctive call to action by ducking into the bathroom and quickly pulling out a first-aid kit from under the sink, knocking down a few spare cans of shaving cream and body lotion while he does, mind racing so quickly, yet so emptily, that he forgets to shut the cabinet on his way back.

 

He returns to Zitao on the bed, sets the kit on the sheets, and cups Zitao’s face in both hands, settling across from Zitao, on the edge of the bed. This is completely, utterly against protocol, but it feels  _ right _ with Zitao. Zitao needs compassion and love, and Yifan has a plethora of untapped reservoirs. 

 

“Look at me, Zitao,” Yifan commands gently, and Zitao’s trembling, flighty eyes focus on Yifan, his breath still short. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he keeps whimpering over and over again, flinching every time Yifan moves his fingers a little bit as they fan across Zitao’s bony, cold cheeks. 

 

Yifan doesn't care about the sheets or the sweater—those are things that can be washed, or at the worst, tossed and replaced. Zitao, however, Yifan worries cannot even be  _ fixed _ . 

 

Zitao’s breath is coming in short bursts, and Yifan worries that Zitao will begin hyperventilating. 

 

“Breathe with me, Zitao.” Yifan gently strokes the high of Zitao’s cheek with his thumb, and focuses his mind on keeping a nice, slow, even breathing pattern. Three in, five out, and he peers into Zitao’s panicked, tearful eyes (and notices with dismay the tremble of his irises—lord how he hopes Zitao doesn't suddenly seize out), his own gaze calm and steady. 

 

“With me, baby, come on,” Yifan encourages. “Three in, five out.” 

 

Normally, it is five seconds in, ten seconds out, but Yifan doesn't know if Zitao can handle that right now without passing out, and he just wants to calm Zitao down more than anything, so three and five will get the job done.

 

Zitao is jittery, his thighs and legs trembling uncontrollably, and he grasps at Yifan’s wrists, holding tightly, because Yifan is the only thing grounding him right now, Yifan is the only person who matters, Yifan is strength and zen amongst Zitao’s weakening chaos, and he watches Yifan’s lips intently, watches the way they form words without really hearing them, the way they relax and purse together with each inhale and exhale, and mimics them as best as he can. 

 

It takes a few moments, but Zitao stops shaking, and he is no longer panicked and crying, which leaves Yifan to tend to Zitao’s wound. 

 

“Good,” Yifan pulls his hands from Zitao’s face. “Keep doing that for me, alright? Three in, five out.” 

 

Zitao nods, not taking his eyes off of Yifan, and continues to regulate his breathing as Yifan says. It really _ is _ helping.

 

Gingerly, once he is confident that Zitao won't have a panic attack, Yifan takes Zitao’s bony wrist, noticing how the skin looks almost translucent, sickly and purple where his veins are, and Yifan knows that with just a sadistic jerk of his hand, Zitao’s bones will splinter and snap beneath his fingers, and he grimaces, wondering if others have taken advantage of the delicacy of Zitao’s body to fulfill perverted desires. 

 

The source of the blood and Zitao’s panic attack isn't actually that terrible a wound, but it isn't pretty by any means. Atop Zitao’s spindly hand, are little pepperings of red and inflamed skin, half-healed scabs, and knuckles that have cracked and are raw from the cold, but the reason for the ink spilling across Yifan’s sheets is undoubtedly an infected injection site from a needle, bleeding profusely only because it is directly atop a vein. 

 

Yifan keeps his face composed, despite the gyre his mind is falling into. 

 

“Can I…?” He asks, gesturing to Zitao’s bloody, loaned sweater sleeve. 

 

Zitao blinks in surprise, eyes growing into sparkling dinner plates, and stiffly, he nods, chewing timidly on his lower lip. 

 

With permission, Yifan carefully—perhaps with the most care that Zitao has had directed towards him in a long while, rolls up Zitao’s sleeve. 

 

Yifan wonders, while he opens the first aid kit and pulls out a loose-wrap bandage, anti-septic spray, gauze, and a handful of other things, when Zitao turned into a junkie, how long he has been one, and how it's managed to skip by Yifan. Yifan has never arrested Zitao for possession, and has never needed a reason to give Zitao a drug test upon holding entry. He knows Zitao’s file, read it so many times one would think it is a brilliant novel, and in many ways, it is. It is Yifan’s only way to know Zitao without getting too close, and Yifan knows for a fact that Zitao has never been charged with possession of an illegal substance, or even possession of paraphernalia.

 

And yet, here Yifan is, cleaning an injection site with too much affection, and keeping his eyes drawn down from the track marks on the inside of Zitao’s arm.

 

“W-when’re you going to take me to the station?” Zitao asks suddenly, voice hoarse and small, and if Yifan is surprised by the sudden conversation topic, his body language and facial expression conceal it very well, for he remains unflinching in his work, spraying a gauze pad in antiseptic fluid. 

 

Yifan notices, for the first time in a while, the odd manner in which Zitao speaks. He is very casual, very personable, acting as if he's speaking to a friend and asking the most normal of questions;  _ are we going to the movies later _ ? and the like. 

 

He’s noticed it before, of course. Zitao’s flourishing, endearing personality had caught Yifan completely by surprise the first time they ever crossed paths, but to be alone in such close proximity brings it to light once more, and Yifan struggles to come to terms with the fact that between the walls of  Yifan’s apartment, they are no longer Officer and Perpetrator—at least, not while the wind whips around them and presses its nose against the window panes, watching an unorthodox pair interact in unorthodox ways. 

 

“This might sting,” Yifan says, quickly pressing the gauze against the bleeding wound, and Zitao’s skin jerking involuntarily against the sterilization is the only cue that Yifan gets that it might've hurt at all. Zitao makes not even a sound, doesn't even squeeze his eyes shut and hiss like people usually do, and Yifan looks at him, brows raised but question unspoken.

 

He holds the cotton pad to the ulcer for a moment. “I’m not taking you to the station.” Yifan announces somewhat humorously, finding it funny that Zitao automatically assumes he is going to his second home—holding cell  _ J10 _ . 

 

“You didn't do anything wrong.” Yifan explains when Zitao only stares blankly at him.

 

Slowly, Zitao’s eyes come to life, and the smallest hint of a smile tugs at his lips. The expression is almost pretty, if one were to ignore the general greyness of Zitao’s skin and how sunken his cheeks are.

 

“Really?” Though he's given his personality permission to rise, Zitao’s voice remains small. “I can't believe it.” 

 

Yifan hums, dragging the cotton pad away from the wound. It isn't bleeding anymore, and Zitao watches with fond, somewhat withdrawn eyes as Yifan draws a cotton swab and a little bottle of ointment from the first aid kit. 

 

“Why’s that?” Yifan humors Zitao, but also himself. If there's even a moment of lucidity, he wants to take advantage of it and try to have a somewhat normal conversation. 

 

Tenderly, holding Zitao’s hand atop his own as though it is the thinnest, rarest of gems, Yifan coats the little wound with medicine. He’s fairly certain that Zitao’s immune system, if functioning at all, is centered on the respiratory infection that has seized Zitao’s lungs, and he doesn't want to risk Zitao getting a more serious infection. 

 

Zitao stifles a cough—or at least, he tries to, but it stirs deep from his chest, wet and wheezing and so  _ painful _ , and Zitao draws his injured hand away to cover his mouth, his whole body heaving in on itself as his lungs rattle back and forth, and he coughs so hard he chokes, and Yifan’s eyes grow wide because it sounds like Zitao is about to  _ vomit _ . 

 

“Fuck—c’mon, Zitao,” Yifan repositions himself on the bed so he is directly beside Zitao, circles his arms around the younger’s back, even as the wheezing cough subsides and Zitao hiccups to regain his breathing. Why—it's just short of an embrace that Yifan holds Zitao in, but Yifan doesn't care. Zitao might cough himself in half if Yifan isn't there to hold him together. 

 

“You're okay, don't panic. It’s okay.” He rubs Zitao’s shoulders, steadying the frail being. It’s a wonder Zitao hasn't coughed himself in half yet. 

 

Yifan doesn't take into consideration that Zitao has worked himself through these awful, painful coughing fits numerous times before, but Zitao takes such sweet comfort in having somebody beside him, somebody who cares enough to worry and offer consolation. Even if Yifan doesn't care—and, all things considered, he probably doesn't—the simple illusion makes Zitao feel like a human being again. 

 

He  _ does _ have feelings, after all. Feelings that are easily hurt despite his situation, and a heart that he wears on his sleeve, hoping for kindness and goodness in every person who lays their hands on him, a heart that breaks and grows shier every time his hopes are crushed. It feels  _ nice _ to be touched the way Yifan touched him—without any ulterior motives. 

 

With tears in his eyes from the coughing fit, Zitao finally calms, and the room falls almost eerily silent, robbed from any conversational pleasantries from just seconds earlier. The hum of the heater suddenly seems deafeningly loud, and Yifan realizes that he is actually, legitimately  _ holding  _ Zitao. And he doesn’t want to let go. 

 

Heroic in denial, Yifan selfishly takes a joy in the way Zitao seems to  _ appreciate  _ all that Yifan is doing for him, even if he doesn’t vocalize it. The way Zitao settles in his arms, the way he watches Yifan work on his hands

 

“Um,” Yifan stutters, realizing that Zitao’s cough has taken all professionalism from his mind. It’s terribly problematic that Yifan should find himself so attached to Zitao and so quickly, when Zitao shouldn't even  _ be _ in his house in the first place. 

 

Yifan never should have wandered off of his route, into the beaten up side of town, searching for trouble, especially so late into the evening when the whole city had anticipated horrid weather for  _ days _ . He should have taken Zitao immediately to the station, and tossed him into holding cell  _ J10 _ , just like he always does when the weather is awful and he spots Zitao suffering through it on a park bench somewhere, and gone home. Alone. Business as usual. 

 

But, Yifan remembers, the station had a full house in the holding unit. All of the cells, including  _ J10 _ , were occupied—or at least, they had been when Yifan left to do one more round before heading home, and Yifan has long learned his lesson with Zitao and cell mates.

 

Zitao absolutely  _ cannot _ have a cell mate. 

 

Of course, this shouldn't matter, for there is no special treatment in prison or jail, but Yifan had made the poor  judgement call of letting Zitao  _ ‘bunk’ _ with two other men once before, and had come back into work the following morning only to find the poor, outnumbered and outsized babe with a black eye, busted lip, and a severe limp that he didn't walk with the night before, and, unable to even apologize to Zitao, since his superior was walking alongside him, Yifan could only offer an on-the-clock, hardened glance at Zitao, curled up as small as could possibly be on one of the cots, hugging his knees to his chest and staring blankly at the floor.

 

It was the first time Zitao didn't wave at Yifan when he saw him, and that bothered Yifan well into the afternoon, long after they released Zitao back into the wild.

 

“I want to take you to the hospital.” Yifan sighs restlessly, patting Zitao’s back lightly and returning to where he sat before. 

 

Zitao stiffens a bit at the suggestion, and bites his lower lip feverishly, clearly not on board with the decision, but if Yifan is a man of his word, Zitao will elude the hospital in exchange for all that is left of his shattered pride. Maybe Yifan will burn the ashes, and like a phoenix, Zitao will rise, no longer beaten and broken. 

 

Of course, this is all wistful thinking. Zitao will never rise, and if he does, it will be anticlimactic at best. 

 

Yifan notices Zitao's apprehension, and blows air from his lips, taking a bottle of sensitive skin lotion from his nightstand and dolloping a small amount into his palm. 

 

“I’m not going to,” Yifan promises, though it's a bit vapid, because of Zitao gets any worse, Yifan will have no other choice. 

 

He takes Zitao’s hand in his own, and begins rubbing the lotion into Zitao’s cracked skin, careful of his little ulcer, and gentle around Zitao’s knuckles. 

 

Zitao stares in awe, but doesn't say anything, afraid he is going to ruin the moment if he does. 

 

“Your hands are  _ teeny _ ,” Yifan offhandedly remarks, his fingers rubbing away pressure between Zitao’s veins. It's true—for Zitao’s build, being so tall, and admittedly wafish, though moreso due to not eating properly, his hands are like that of a doll; small, thin, long fingers in proportion to his palm. 

 

Zitao gives a little laugh, his shoulders sagging. “They were pretty, too,” He says, and as an afterthought, he adds, “Once.”

 

There is no bitterness or cynicism in Zitao’s voice—it is placid, like he's recalling the color of the sky, and for some reason that makes it sting more than anything. 

 

Yifan wraps himself up in the present, sometimes the future, but mostly, he draws on what is happening  _ now _ , because that's all that really matters, anyways. He has completely forgotten that underneath the grime and trauma, there is an  _ entire person _ to Zitao. Not just a now, or a five minutes from now—but an entire person with a childhood, with memories and hobbies and friends, once upon a time. Zitao didn't just vaporize on the corner of the street one day—something unfortunate lead him there. 

 

Once he is certain Zitao’s hand isn't going to crack and bleed, Yifan takes the liberty of giving Zitao’s other hand the same treatment.

 

After a moment of silence that is just as crushing as it is telling, Yifan, still rubbing lotion into Zitao’s hand, clears his throats and looks up, meeting Zitao's eyes. 

 

“Why are you so scared of the hospital?” He asks, reaching into the first aid kit to grab some loose bandages. He takes Zitao’s injured hand and begins wrapping firmly, taking care to cover the wound, and Zitao’s painful-looking knuckles. 

 

Zitao sucks on his lower lip. “They're not nice to me.” 

 

It is simple enough of an answer, and through cryptics, Yifan infers that Zitao doesn’t want to speak more about it, so he hums, acknowledging Zitao’s feelings, and tucks the bandage in on itself so it doesn’t unravel.

 

Yifan and Zitao have never had a conversation beyond basic greetings and officer-perpetrator interactions, and that is primarily Yifan’s doing. Zitao is always friendly and engaging, even under unfavorable circumstances, but Yifan is always quick to shoot down any amicable discussions, finding it in bad practice to converse with those who often find themselves in the back of a cruiser. 

 

The unfamiliarity of the situation at hand has Yifan’s stomach churning, and he wishes he had taken Zitao up on mindless chatter at least once in the past, so they wouldn't be quite so awkward now. After a while, Yifan’s harsh exterior had silenced Zitao, who, in the back of Officer Wu’s car, only ever wanted to have a nice conversation with the one person who, despite his occupation, didn't treat him like he was illiterate. 

 

Zitao at least hopes that Officer Wu doesn't think him to be nescient. Zitao is very capable, very intelligent. There is a reason why the old library is his favorite place to loiter. 

 

“So, um,” Yifan begins with no clear path, tucking the first aid supplies back into the kit, and deciding in good judgment to keep it nearby, just in case another orifice of Zitao’s starts bleeding. 

 

“Those are track marks, huh?” Yifan says, and immediately berates himself for a lack of a filter—unfamiliar situations make him thoughtless, ironic considering his occupation, but truth nonetheless. 

 

Zitao blinks in surprise, shame dusting his cheeks a very pale red, which does little for his nearly-grey complexion, and he frowns deeply, the corners of his lips wrinkling, his eyes downcast. With stiff fingers, his hands barely mobile thanks to Yifan’s very kind hospitality, he pulls his sleeves far over his hands, the cuffs wet with blood. 

 

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” Yifan apologizes, covering one of Zitao’s now-pawed hands gently with his own. “You don't have to answer that, fuck.” 

 

“They are.” Zitao answers quietly, biting his lip and keeping his gaze down. It is bad enough that he is a dirtied prostitute, riddled with unknown diseases and a plethora of mental trauma worth writing a book about (if he considered himself intelligent enough to do so), but now to admit his problem with narcotics to the one person who has, thus far, treated him like a person? He doesn't think his heart can take much more shame.

 

Yifan must be disgusted by him—Hell, Zitao is disgusted by himself, hateful of the aches in his body and the way his hands tremble, mind a wicked trickster when withdrawal sets in. He hopes, if his terrible symptoms do come out to play, he can keep them at bay. Yifan doesn't deserve to deal with that. 

 

But oh, does it pain something in Yifan to hear the gentle confirmation, to watch the gears turn in Zitao’s mind. He certainly is very thoughtful, but Yifan thinks that thought is sometimes Zitao’s only companion. 

 

It has become terribly uncomfortable in the room, as Yifan and Zitao both avoid each other’s stares for opposite reasons. 

 

“Oh,” Yifan suddenly remembers his intentions for coming into the bedroom in the first place. Where he had earlier set in a panic, still sits a cooling, but still warm bowl of congee, and a bottle of medicine. 

 

He hands the bowl to Zitao, disinterested in withholding food from him (God knows how many times Yifan had done such a thing inadvertently), and instead curiously regards the ingredients on the back of the bottle. 

 

Now that he is aware of Zitao’s nasty little habit—and aware of just how discerning he actually is as a person—Yifan is wary of simply feeding pills into Zitao and hoping for the best. Ignorance may be bliss, but Yifan thinks he might just put a gun to his head and pull the trigger if he were to accidentally kill Zitao with a cocktail of sudafed and amphetamines. God knows the absolute  _ last  _ thing that Yifan wants piled onto his disastrous dinner plate is the possibility of inadvertently causing an overdose during a winter storm. 

 

Yifan stares at the bottle for too long, far longer than it takes to read an unreadable list of chemicals and side effects. 

 

There is a prostitute in his bed, eating a bowl of rice porridge. 

 

There is a  _ junkie  _ prostitute in his bed, eating a bowl of rice porridge. 

 

If he had any sense of humor at all, maybe he would laugh, perceiving the whole situation as the start of a bad joke—but Yifan doesn’t laugh about Zitao. He never has. There is nothing funny about a sexually abused, starved out teenager, and even if Yifan claims himself to be a heartless bastard, and questions whether or not he falls on the spectrum of Antisocial Personality Disorder, he isn’t as detached as he thinks he is. 

 

He cares. 

 

He cares a  _ lot _ —too much—about Zitao’s fate, and he hates that he does, because now it’s his problem, and he hates that he doesn’t mind that it’s his problem. 

 

Yifan’s fingers dig into the label of the bottle, nails tearing the sticker a little, and in bed, forgotten for a moment, forgotten for a lifetime, Zitao swallows a mouthful of porridge and coughs softly at the burn in his throat, uncomfortable with the silence. 

 

“I…” He starts, his wicked cough tearing through his throat, and Yifan snaps out of it, turning his attention to Zitao, but the coughing passes quickly this time around. 

 

Zitao keeps his head bowed, bony shoulders swallowed by the loaned sweater, and holds his bowl of food in both of his hands, letting the warmth of the soup to bring a bit of blood into his fingers. 

 

Yifan is going to treat him differently now. 

 

Yifan is going to treat him like everybody else. 

 

Sometimes, Zitao can conjure up a bit of sympathy and care with prostitution, but drug addicts don’t seem to be as savable. Nobody has ever wanted to help him, and now a forced habit is going to turn away the only person who has treated him like a human being with feelings, and his eyes fill with cold tears that weigh heavily along his lower lash line. 

 

“I’m clean.” Zitao chokes out, tears falling silently and quickly from his eyes, falling onto the tummy of his sweater, absorbed into little circles by the fibers of the fabric, and Yifan’s mouth feels terribly dry. 

 

Is Zitao woefully perceptive, or does Yifan just think out loud? 

 

Zitao lifts his gaze, eyes watery, and Yifan sees the sky just before a storm in Zitao’s gaze—swirling, grey clouds that are trying to decide whether or not they want to downpour. 

 

For the first time in the evening, Zitao smiles. 

 

It’s horrific.

 

It isn’t an expression that Yifan will recall fondly in hindsight, not an expression that he finds attractive or sweet—there isn’t even the  _ anticipation  _ of a flutter in his heart, so unlike when Zitao would smile at him in the past. 

 

There is so much pain in Zitao’s smile tonight, it’s wickedly insincere, pathetic even, and it cracks and sinks Yifan’s heart where it would usually uplift and repair, and he swallows thickly, unsure of how much time has passed. 

 

“I’m three days sober.” Zitao’s voice breaks in the middle of the confession, hiccuped by the falling of his lead tears, crying diamonds into the fabric of his shirt, and his throat constricts even more, breath stifled. 

 

It’s good, isn’t it? Zitao thinks. Three days sober. 

 

It’s a _ wful. _

 

Three days sober means something different in Zitao’s world. Three days sober means three days without any business, three days without money, three days without being forced into a motel room, numbly offering his arm to somebody who looks even worse off than he does (though always a bit more diabolical), and crying out, tears in his eyes, when a needle is forced into his crippled veins and a drug administered that turns him into exactly what his clients love—exactly what he is known for being. A mindless, drugged out little doll, who can’t object to anything, can’t fight back, can’t cry out for help. 

 

Three days without a forced high, three days without staring blankly into the nothingness of his future, coming back to his present for a moment and crying out, only to be suffocated by pain, more stones shoveled into his pockets as he is pushed deeper and deeper under water. 

 

He weeps in the sea that drowns him, and Yifan doesn’t know what to do. 

 

Zitao  _ weeps _ —breaking for the first time since Yifan has known him, and Yifan has no fucking idea what to do, and finds himself relying on instinct once more. 

 

“It’s a good thing, right?” Zitao asks, expecting no answer, his heart tearing apart in humiliation. 

 

Three days sober is a good thing. A very good thing. Three minutes sober is a good thing. Three hours. It’s all so good—and yet three days of sobriety in Zitao’s world only promises three weeks of suffering. 

 

Yifan, however, is not in Zitao’s world—not yet—and he isn’t even sure he is in his own world, so all he can really do is take the half-eaten bowl from Zitao again, set it on the counter, and drop the bottle of cold medicine, pills clattering along the inside quite loudly, the container rolling under the bed.

 

“It’s a great thing,” Yifan finally says, though his voice sounds far removed—the whole situation seems far removed—and thoughtlessly, he finds himself embracing Zitao again, taking the worn soul into his arms, one of his hands cradling the base of Zitao’s skull as he would hold an infant, Yifan’s other arm wrapping around Zitao’s too-thin waist. God, he’s so skinny. They’re too rough on his body, he’ll break if they’re too rough with him. 

 

Yifan rests his chin along the rails of Zitao’s shoulder, tucking Zitao’s head into his neck and allowing the boy to cry, caring not how cold Zitao’s tears are as they drip down his skin and wet the collar of his shirt. Yifan only holds him, because it is all he knows to do, despite uncertainty making his skin crawl as he stares at the other side of his room, Zitao trembling in his arms, Yifan trembling to himself. 

 

“It’s okay,” Yifan finds himself mindlessly whispering, rubbing Zitao’s back and ignoring the way Zitao’s spine feels against his palm. “

eulogy

 

dont make me love you 

 

. . . .

  
  


Yifan revokes his demand. 

 

In the kitchen, he stares at the bowls in the sink, half-full of water and the congealed remnants of congee, and runs his tongue across the back of his teeth. He leans heavily over the counter, head hanging over the sink as he stares at the rice, swimming in swirling water, and finds something so nauseating and disgusting about the dishes. His fingers clutch the edge of the countertop, and he breathes— _ one, two, three _ —in through his nose and out— _ one, two, three, four, five— _ through his mouth.

 

In not even ten hours, Yifan’s entire life has fallen to shit, and though he doesn’t mind Zitao—not really—he can already feel the overwhelming responsibilities and problems surrounding his current attachment to Zitao as they create a longing in his soul and mind for boring nights. Yifan knows that his days are about to become far more interesting, because he had gotten far too personal, his conscience is too strong and nagging for him to pass Zitao back into the hands of the elements once the snow clears to a tolerable level. 

 

Yifan clears his throat and shakes his head, pushing away from the countertop and preparing another bowl of congee for Zitao, and grabs a cold medication containing pseudoephedrine, knowing that it’ll make Zitao a little sleepy, but hopefully work wonders for the boy’s illness. 

 

When Yifan re-enters the bedroom, he is faced with an issue that should make him turn away in disgust, but in actuality, only makes his heart deflate with sorrow, and his police academy training is ringing alarms in his head, urging him to stop empathizing so much, but be damned, he ignores indifference, wiggling it from his heart and replacing it with the tendrils of compassion, unfamiliar to him, yet guiding him into all of the wrong places with the right person.

 

Just as Zitao has been called a stain in the hearts and lives of many, his reputation follows him into the only sanctuary he has ever known, even if temporarily, and through the anxious wringing of his hands, Zitao has torn loose a scab over an ulcer atop a vein in his left hand, blood flowing horrifyingly quickly, queasing his stomach, and staining the pillows and blankets and sleeves of the sweater he has been loaned. 

 

The appearance of the blood sent Zitao’s worn soul into a panic. He has dirtied Yifan’s clothes, dirtied Yifan’s home, humiliated himself, unlovable and unattractive—and  _ now, now _ he has bled his soiled blood all over Yifan’s pretty, white, Egyptian cotton sheets. Tears fill his eyes and spill across his dull cheeks, eyes alight with panic and sorrow, and when Yifan walks in, expecting tales of plight and misery, Zitao cries harder. 

 

“I-I’m sorry.” He whimpers pathetically, voice teeny and trembling, cracking out of fear that Yifan will grow irate, if he hasn't already. Zitao is trembling just as his voice is, and his hands are stamped with the watery consistency of his blood, and as he stares down at his hands, he wonders when they became so crippled and damaged, and why the blood  _ just keeps coming _ . 

 

Yifan is dumbfounded, struck entirely by how bizarre the situation at hand truly is, and stares stupidly at Zitao for a moment, feeling such a tremendous ache in his heart. Yifan  _ knows _ he needs to get the first aid kit from the bathroom and sanitize the wound—hopefully he has butterfly stitches on hand—but he also knows that Zitao will probably weep upon the application of rubbing alcohol in his wounds, and Yifan’s heart aches like it is being squeezed between Zitao’s boney fingers at the thought of causing the boy any more pain and suffering. 

 

It’s the panicked, undoubtedly frightened whimper from Zitao that snaps Yifan out of it. 

 

“It won't stop.” Zitao confesses with horror, his heart throbbing. Truthfully, the ulcer, though burst, doesn't hurt. Zitao has so much chronic, persistent,  _ sharp _ pain that his body seems to have ceased to register new injuries unless they are broken bones or beaten faces. 

 

Yifan answers his instinctive call to action by ducking into the bathroom and quickly pulling out a first-aid kit from under the sink, knocking down a few spare cans of shaving cream and body lotion while he does, mind racing so quickly, yet so emptily, that he forgets to shut the cabinet on his way back.

 

He returns to Zitao on the bed, sets the kit on the sheets, and cups Zitao’s face in both hands, settling across from Zitao, on the edge of the bed. This is completely, utterly against protocol, but it feels  _ right _ with Zitao. Zitao needs compassion and love, and Yifan has a plethora of untapped reservoirs. 

 

“Look at me, Zitao,” Yifan commands gently, and Zitao’s trembling, flighty eyes focus on Yifan, his breath still short. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he keeps whimpering over and over again, flinching every time Yifan moves his fingers a little bit as they fan across Zitao’s bony, cold cheeks. 

 

Yifan doesn't care about the sheets or the sweater—those are things that can be washed, or at the worst, tossed and replaced. Zitao, however, Yifan worries cannot even be  _ fixed _ . 

 

Zitao’s breath is coming in short bursts, and Yifan worries that Zitao will begin hyperventilating. 

 

“Breathe with me, Zitao.” Yifan gently strokes the high of Zitao’s cheek with his thumb, and focuses his mind on keeping a nice, slow, even breathing pattern. Three in, five out, and he peers into Zitao’s panicked, tearful eyes (and notices with dismay the tremble of his irises—lord how he hopes Zitao doesn't suddenly seize out), his own gaze calm and steady. 

 

“With me, baby, come on,” Yifan encourages. “Three in, five out.” 

 

Normally, it is five seconds in, ten seconds out, but Yifan doesn't know if Zitao can handle that right now without passing out, and he just wants to calm Zitao down more than anything, so three and five will get the job done.

 

Zitao is jittery, his thighs and legs trembling uncontrollably, and he grasps at Yifan’s wrists, holding tightly, because Yifan is the only thing grounding him right now, Yifan is the only person who matters, Yifan is strength and zen amongst Zitao’s weakening chaos, and he watches Yifan’s lips intently, watches the way they form words without really hearing them, the way they relax and purse together with each inhale and exhale, and mimics them as best as he can. 

 

It takes a few moments, but Zitao stops shaking, and he is no longer panicked and crying, which leaves Yifan to tend to Zitao’s wound. 

 

“Good,” Yifan pulls his hands from Zitao’s face. “Keep doing that for me, alright? Three in, five out.” 

 

Zitao nods, not taking his eyes off of Yifan, and continues to regulate his breathing as Yifan says. It really _ is _ helping.

 

Gingerly, once he is confident that Zitao won't have a panic attack, Yifan takes Zitao’s bony wrist, noticing how the skin looks almost translucent, sickly and purple where his veins are, and Yifan knows that with just a sadistic jerk of his hand, Zitao’s bones will splinter and snap beneath his fingers, and he grimaces, wondering if others have taken advantage of the delicacy of Zitao’s body to fulfill perverted desires. 

 

The source of the blood and Zitao’s panic attack isn't actually that terrible a wound, but it isn't pretty by any means. Atop Zitao’s spindly hand, are little pepperings of red and inflamed skin, half-healed scabs, and knuckles that have cracked and are raw from the cold, but the reason for the ink spilling across Yifan’s sheets is undoubtedly an infected injection site from a needle, bleeding profusely only because it is directly atop a vein. 

 

Yifan keeps his face composed, despite the gyre his mind is falling into. 

 

“Can I…?” He asks, gesturing to Zitao’s bloody, loaned sweater sleeve. 

 

Zitao blinks in surprise, eyes growing into sparkling dinner plates, and stiffly, he nods, chewing timidly on his lower lip. 

 

With permission, Yifan carefully—perhaps with the most care that Zitao has had directed towards him in a long while, rolls up Zitao’s sleeve. 

 

Yifan wonders, while he opens the first aid kit and pulls out a loose-wrap bandage, anti-septic spray, gauze, and a handful of other things, when Zitao turned into a junkie, how long he has been one, and how it's managed to skip by Yifan. Yifan has never arrested Zitao for possession, and has never needed a reason to give Zitao a drug test upon holding entry. He knows Zitao’s file, read it so many times one would think it is a brilliant novel, and in many ways, it is. It is Yifan’s only way to know Zitao without getting too close, and Yifan knows for a fact that Zitao has never been charged with possession of an illegal substance, or even possession of paraphernalia.

 

And yet, here Yifan is, cleaning an injection site with too much affection, and keeping his eyes drawn down from the track marks on the inside of Zitao’s arm.

 

“W-when’re you going to take me to the station?” Zitao asks suddenly, voice hoarse and small, and if Yifan is surprised by the sudden conversation topic, his body language and facial expression conceal it very well, for he remains unflinching in his work, spraying a gauze pad in antiseptic fluid. 

 

Yifan notices, for the first time in a while, the odd manner in which Zitao speaks. He is very casual, very personable, acting as if he's speaking to a friend and asking the most normal of questions;  _ are we going to the movies later _ ? and the like. 

 

He’s noticed it before, of course. Zitao’s flourishing, endearing personality had caught Yifan completely by surprise the first time they ever crossed paths, but to be alone in such close proximity brings it to light once more, and Yifan struggles to come to terms with the fact that between the walls of  Yifan’s apartment, they are no longer Officer and Perpetrator—at least, not while the wind whips around them and presses its nose against the window panes, watching an unorthodox pair interact in unorthodox ways. 

 

“This might sting,” Yifan says, quickly pressing the gauze against the bleeding wound, and Zitao’s skin jerking involuntarily against the sterilization is the only cue that Yifan gets that it might've hurt at all. Zitao makes not even a sound, doesn't even squeeze his eyes shut and hiss like people usually do, and Yifan looks at him, brows raised but question unspoken.

 

He holds the cotton pad to the ulcer for a moment. “I’m not taking you to the station.” Yifan announces somewhat humorously, finding it funny that Zitao automatically assumes he is going to his second home—holding cell  _ J10 _ . 

 

“You didn't do anything wrong.” Yifan explains when Zitao only stares blankly at him.

 

Slowly, Zitao’s eyes come to life, and the smallest hint of a smile tugs at his lips. The expression is almost pretty, if one were to ignore the general greyness of Zitao’s skin and how sunken his cheeks are.

 

“Really?” Though he's given his personality permission to rise, Zitao’s voice remains small. “I can't believe it.” 

 

Yifan hums, dragging the cotton pad away from the wound. It isn't bleeding anymore, and Zitao watches with fond, somewhat withdrawn eyes as Yifan draws a cotton swab and a little bottle of ointment from the first aid kit. 

 

“Why’s that?” Yifan humors Zitao, but also himself. If there's even a moment of lucidity, he wants to take advantage of it and try to have a somewhat normal conversation. 

 

Tenderly, holding Zitao’s hand atop his own as though it is the thinnest, rarest of gems, Yifan coats the little wound with medicine. He’s fairly certain that Zitao’s immune system, if functioning at all, is centered on the respiratory infection that has seized Zitao’s lungs, and he doesn't want to risk Zitao getting a more serious infection. 

 

Zitao stifles a cough—or at least, he tries to, but it stirs deep from his chest, wet and wheezing and so  _ painful _ , and Zitao draws his injured hand away to cover his mouth, his whole body heaving in on itself as his lungs rattle back and forth, and he coughs so hard he chokes, and Yifan’s eyes grow wide because it sounds like Zitao is about to  _ vomit _ . 

 

“Fuck—c’mon, Zitao,” Yifan repositions himself on the bed so he is directly beside Zitao, circles his arms around the younger’s back, even as the wheezing cough subsides and Zitao hiccups to regain his breathing. Why—it's just short of an embrace that Yifan holds Zitao in, but Yifan doesn't care. Zitao might cough himself in half if Yifan isn't there to hold him together. 

 

“You're okay, don't panic. It’s okay.” He rubs Zitao’s shoulders, steadying the frail being. It’s a wonder Zitao hasn't coughed himself in half yet. 

 

Yifan doesn't take into consideration that Zitao has worked himself through these awful, painful coughing fits numerous times before, but Zitao takes such sweet comfort in having somebody beside him, somebody who cares enough to worry and offer consolation. Even if Yifan doesn't care—and, all things considered, he probably doesn't—the simple illusion makes Zitao feel like a human being again. 

 

He  _ does _ have feelings, after all. Feelings that are easily hurt despite his situation, and a heart that he wears on his sleeve, hoping for kindness and goodness in every person who lays their hands on him, a heart that breaks and grows shier every time his hopes are crushed. It feels  _ nice _ to be touched the way Yifan touched him—without any ulterior motives. 

 

With tears in his eyes from the coughing fit, Zitao finally calms, and the room falls almost eerily silent, robbed from any conversational pleasantries from just seconds earlier. The hum of the heater suddenly seems deafeningly loud, and Yifan realizes that he is actually, legitimately  _ holding  _ Zitao. And he doesn’t want to let go. 

 

Heroic in denial, Yifan selfishly takes a joy in the way Zitao seems to  _ appreciate  _ all that Yifan is doing for him, even if he doesn’t vocalize it. The way Zitao settles in his arms, the way he watches Yifan work on his hands

 

“Um,” Yifan stutters, realizing that Zitao’s cough has taken all professionalism from his mind. It’s terribly problematic that Yifan should find himself so attached to Zitao and so quickly, when Zitao shouldn't even  _ be _ in his house in the first place. 

 

Yifan never should have wandered off of his route, into the beaten up side of town, searching for trouble, especially so late into the evening when the whole city had anticipated horrid weather for  _ days _ . He should have taken Zitao immediately to the station, and tossed him into holding cell  _ J10 _ , just like he always does when the weather is awful and he spots Zitao suffering through it on a park bench somewhere, and gone home. Alone. Business as usual. 

 

But, Yifan remembers, the station had a full house in the holding unit. All of the cells, including  _ J10 _ , were occupied—or at least, they had been when Yifan left to do one more round before heading home, and Yifan has long learned his lesson with Zitao and cell mates.

 

Zitao absolutely  _ cannot _ have a cell mate. 

 

Of course, this shouldn't matter, for there is no special treatment in prison or jail, but Yifan had made the poor  judgement call of letting Zitao  _ ‘bunk’ _ with two other men once before, and had come back into work the following morning only to find the poor, outnumbered and outsized babe with a black eye, busted lip, and a severe limp that he didn't walk with the night before, and, unable to even apologize to Zitao, since his superior was walking alongside him, Yifan could only offer an on-the-clock, hardened glance at Zitao, curled up as small as could possibly be on one of the cots, hugging his knees to his chest and staring blankly at the floor.

 

It was the first time Zitao didn't wave at Yifan when he saw him, and that bothered Yifan well into the afternoon, long after they released Zitao back into the wild.

 

“I want to take you to the hospital.” Yifan sighs restlessly, patting Zitao’s back lightly and returning to where he sat before. 

 

Zitao stiffens a bit at the suggestion, and bites his lower lip feverishly, clearly not on board with the decision, but if Yifan is a man of his word, Zitao will elude the hospital in exchange for all that is left of his shattered pride. Maybe Yifan will burn the ashes, and like a phoenix, Zitao will rise, no longer beaten and broken. 

 

Of course, this is all wistful thinking. Zitao will never rise, and if he does, it will be anticlimactic at best. 

 

Yifan notices Zitao's apprehension, and blows air from his lips, taking a bottle of sensitive skin lotion from his nightstand and dolloping a small amount into his palm. 

 

“I’m not going to,” Yifan promises, though it's a bit vapid, because of Zitao gets any worse, Yifan will have no other choice. 

 

He takes Zitao’s hand in his own, and begins rubbing the lotion into Zitao’s cracked skin, careful of his little ulcer, and gentle around Zitao’s knuckles. 

 

Zitao stares in awe, but doesn't say anything, afraid he is going to ruin the moment if he does. 

 

“Your hands are  _ teeny _ ,” Yifan offhandedly remarks, his fingers rubbing away pressure between Zitao’s veins. It's true—for Zitao’s build, being so tall, and admittedly wafish, though moreso due to not eating properly, his hands are like that of a doll; small, thin, long fingers in proportion to his palm. 

 

Zitao gives a little laugh, his shoulders sagging. “They were pretty, too,” He says, and as an afterthought, he adds, “Once.”

 

There is no bitterness or cynicism in Zitao’s voice—it is placid, like he's recalling the color of the sky, and for some reason that makes it sting more than anything. 

 

Yifan wraps himself up in the present, sometimes the future, but mostly, he draws on what is happening  _ now _ , because that's all that really matters, anyways. He has completely forgotten that underneath the grime and trauma, there is an  _ entire person _ to Zitao. Not just a now, or a five minutes from now—but an entire person with a childhood, with memories and hobbies and friends, once upon a time. Zitao didn't just vaporize on the corner of the street one day—something unfortunate lead him there. 

 

Once he is certain Zitao’s hand isn't going to crack and bleed, Yifan takes the liberty of giving Zitao’s other hand the same treatment.

 

After a moment of silence that is just as crushing as it is telling, Yifan, still rubbing lotion into Zitao’s hand, clears his throats and looks up, meeting Zitao's eyes. 

 

“Why are you so scared of the hospital?” He asks, reaching into the first aid kit to grab some loose bandages. He takes Zitao’s injured hand and begins wrapping firmly, taking care to cover the wound, and Zitao’s painful-looking knuckles. 

 

Zitao sucks on his lower lip. “They're not nice to me.” 

 

It is simple enough of an answer, and through cryptics, Yifan infers that Zitao doesn’t want to speak more about it, so he hums, acknowledging Zitao’s feelings, and tucks the bandage in on itself so it doesn’t unravel.

 

Yifan and Zitao have never had a conversation beyond basic greetings and officer-perpetrator interactions, and that is primarily Yifan’s doing. Zitao is always friendly and engaging, even under unfavorable circumstances, but Yifan is always quick to shoot down any amicable discussions, finding it in bad practice to converse with those who often find themselves in the back of a cruiser. 

 

The unfamiliarity of the situation at hand has Yifan’s stomach churning, and he wishes he had taken Zitao up on mindless chatter at least once in the past, so they wouldn't be quite so awkward now. After a while, Yifan’s harsh exterior had silenced Zitao, who, in the back of Officer Wu’s car, only ever wanted to have a nice conversation with the one person who, despite his occupation, didn't treat him like he was illiterate. 

 

Zitao at least hopes that Officer Wu doesn't think him to be nescient. Zitao is very capable, very intelligent. There is a reason why the old library is his favorite place to loiter. 

 

“So, um,” Yifan begins with no clear path, tucking the first aid supplies back into the kit, and deciding in good judgment to keep it nearby, just in case another orifice of Zitao’s starts bleeding. 

 

“Those are track marks, huh?” Yifan says, and immediately berates himself for a lack of a filter—unfamiliar situations make him thoughtless, ironic considering his occupation, but truth nonetheless. 

 

Zitao blinks in surprise, shame dusting his cheeks a very pale red, which does little for his nearly-grey complexion, and he frowns deeply, the corners of his lips wrinkling, his eyes downcast. With stiff fingers, his hands barely mobile thanks to Yifan’s very kind hospitality, he pulls his sleeves far over his hands, the cuffs wet with blood. 

 

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” Yifan apologizes, covering one of Zitao’s now-pawed hands gently with his own. “You don't have to answer that, fuck.” 

 

“They are.” Zitao answers quietly, biting his lip and keeping his gaze down. It is bad enough that he is a dirtied prostitute, riddled with unknown diseases and a plethora of mental trauma worth writing a book about (if he considered himself intelligent enough to do so), but now to admit his problem with narcotics to the one person who has, thus far, treated him like a person? He doesn't think his heart can take much more shame.

 

Yifan must be disgusted by him—Hell, Zitao is disgusted by himself, hateful of the aches in his body and the way his hands tremble, mind a wicked trickster when withdrawal sets in. He hopes, if his terrible symptoms do come out to play, he can keep them at bay. Yifan doesn't deserve to deal with that. 

 

But oh, does it pain something in Yifan to hear the gentle confirmation, to watch the gears turn in Zitao’s mind. He certainly is very thoughtful, but Yifan thinks that thought is sometimes Zitao’s only companion. 

 

It has become terribly uncomfortable in the room, as Yifan and Zitao both avoid each other’s stares for opposite reasons. 

 

“Oh,” Yifan suddenly remembers his intentions for coming into the bedroom in the first place. Where he had earlier set in a panic, still sits a cooling, but still warm bowl of congee, and a bottle of medicine. 

 

He hands the bowl to Zitao, disinterested in withholding food from him (God knows how many times Yifan had done such a thing inadvertently), and instead curiously regards the ingredients on the back of the bottle. 

 

Now that he is aware of Zitao’s nasty little habit—and aware of just how discerning he actually is as a person—Yifan is wary of simply feeding pills into Zitao and hoping for the best. Ignorance may be bliss, but Yifan thinks he might just put a gun to his head and pull the trigger if he were to accidentally kill Zitao with a cocktail of sudafed and amphetamines. God knows the absolute  _ last  _ thing that Yifan wants piled onto his disastrous dinner plate is the possibility of inadvertently causing an overdose during a winter storm. 

 

Yifan stares at the bottle for too long, far longer than it takes to read an unreadable list of chemicals and side effects. 

 

There is a prostitute in his bed, eating a bowl of rice porridge. 

 

There is a  _ junkie  _ prostitute in his bed, eating a bowl of rice porridge. 

 

If he had any sense of humor at all, maybe he would laugh, perceiving the whole situation as the start of a bad joke—but Yifan doesn’t laugh about Zitao. He never has. There is nothing funny about a sexually abused, starved out teenager, and even if Yifan claims himself to be a heartless bastard, and questions whether or not he falls on the spectrum of Antisocial Personality Disorder, he isn’t as detached as he thinks he is. 

 

He cares. 

 

He cares a  _ lot _ —too much—about Zitao’s fate, and he hates that he does, because now it’s his problem, and he hates that he doesn’t mind that it’s his problem. 

 

Yifan’s fingers dig into the label of the bottle, nails tearing the sticker a little, and in bed, forgotten for a moment, forgotten for a lifetime, Zitao swallows a mouthful of porridge and coughs softly at the burn in his throat, uncomfortable with the silence. 

 

“I…” He starts, his wicked cough tearing through his throat, and Yifan snaps out of it, turning his attention to Zitao, but the coughing passes quickly this time around. 

 

Zitao keeps his head bowed, bony shoulders swallowed by the loaned sweater, and holds his bowl of food in both of his hands, letting the warmth of the soup to bring a bit of blood into his fingers. 

 

Yifan is going to treat him differently now. 

 

Yifan is going to treat him like everybody else. 

 

Sometimes, Zitao can conjure up a bit of sympathy and care with prostitution, but drug addicts don’t seem to be as savable. Nobody has ever wanted to help him, and now a forced habit is going to turn away the only person who has treated him like a human being with feelings, and his eyes fill with cold tears that weigh heavily along his lower lash line. 

 

“I’m clean.” Zitao chokes out, tears falling silently and quickly from his eyes, falling onto the tummy of his sweater, absorbed into little circles by the fibers of the fabric, and Yifan’s mouth feels terribly dry. 

 

Is Zitao woefully perceptive, or does Yifan just think out loud? 

 

Zitao lifts his gaze, eyes watery, and Yifan sees the sky just before a storm in Zitao’s gaze—swirling, grey clouds that are trying to decide whether or not they want to downpour. 

 

For the first time in the evening, Zitao smiles. 

 

It’s horrific.

 

It isn’t an expression that Yifan will recall fondly in hindsight, not an expression that he finds attractive or sweet—there isn’t even the  _ anticipation  _ of a flutter in his heart, so unlike when Zitao would smile at him in the past. 

 

There is so much pain in Zitao’s smile tonight, it’s wickedly insincere, pathetic even, and it cracks and sinks Yifan’s heart where it would usually uplift and repair, and he swallows thickly, unsure of how much time has passed. 

 

“I’m three days sober.” Zitao’s voice breaks in the middle of the confession, hiccuped by the falling of his lead tears, crying diamonds into the fabric of his shirt, and his throat constricts even more, breath stifled. 

 

It’s good, isn’t it? Zitao thinks. Three days sober. 

 

It’s a _ wful. _

 

Three days sober means something different in Zitao’s world. Three days sober means three days without any business, three days without money, three days without being forced into a motel room, numbly offering his arm to somebody who looks even worse off than he does (though always a bit more diabolical), and crying out, tears in his eyes, when a needle is forced into his crippled veins and a drug administered that turns him into exactly what his clients love—exactly what he is known for being. A mindless, drugged out little doll, who can’t object to anything, can’t fight back, can’t cry out for help. 

 

Three days without a forced high, three days without staring blankly into the nothingness of his future, coming back to his present for a moment and crying out, only to be suffocated by pain, more stones shoveled into his pockets as he is pushed deeper and deeper under water. 

 

He weeps in the sea that drowns him, and Yifan doesn’t know what to do. 

 

Zitao  _ weeps _ —breaking for the first time since Yifan has known him, and Yifan has no fucking idea what to do, and finds himself relying on instinct once more. 

 

“It’s a good thing, right?” Zitao asks, expecting no answer, his heart tearing apart in humiliation. 

 

Three days sober is a good thing. A very good thing. Three minutes sober is a good thing. Three hours. It’s all so good—and yet three days of sobriety in Zitao’s world only promises three weeks of suffering. 

 

Yifan, however, is not in Zitao’s world—not yet—and he isn’t even sure he is in his own world, so all he can really do is take the half-eaten bowl from Zitao again, set it on the counter, and drop the bottle of cold medicine, pills clattering along the inside quite loudly, the container rolling under the bed.

 

“It’s a great thing,” Yifan finally says, though his voice sounds far removed—the whole situation seems far removed—and thoughtlessly, he finds himself embracing Zitao again, taking the worn soul into his arms, one of his hands cradling the base of Zitao’s skull as he would hold an infant, Yifan’s other arm wrapping around Zitao’s too-thin waist. God, he’s so skinny. They’re too rough on his body, he’ll break if they’re too rough with him. 

 

Yifan rests his chin along the rails of Zitao’s shoulder, tucking Zitao’s head into his neck and allowing the boy to cry, caring not how cold Zitao’s tears are as they drip down his skin and wet the collar of his shirt. Yifan only holds him, because it is all he knows to do, despite uncertainty making his skin crawl as he stares at the other side of his room, Zitao trembling in his arms, Yifan trembling to himself. 

 

“It’s okay,” Yifan finds himself mindlessly whispering, rubbing Zitao’s back and ignoring the way Zitao’s spine feels against his palm. “You’re okay. Everything is okay.” 

 

_ Tha _ t is a blatant lie. 

 

There is  _ nothing _ okay about this—everything about Zitao’s situation, the bits and pieces that Yifan knows, is so incredibly, massively, royally  _ fucked  _ that it’s almost incomprehensible. 

 

But Zitao doesn’t need to know that Yifan thinks that. Zitao is intelligent, perceptive, and Yifan isn’t very good at hiding himself around Zitao, so the weeping angel probably already knows that Yifan thinks this is fucked up, but he doesn’t need to hear it outloud. 

 

Sometimes it is nice to hear that everything is okay, even if everything  _ is  _ incredibly, massively, royally  _ fucked. _

 

You’re okay. Everything is okay.” 

 

_ Tha _ t is a blatant lie. 

 

There is  _ nothing _ okay about this—everything about Zitao’s situation, the bits and pieces that Yifan knows, is so incredibly, massively, royally  _ fucked  _ that it’s almost incomprehensible. 

 

But Zitao doesn’t need to know that Yifan thinks that. Zitao is intelligent, perceptive, and Yifan isn’t very good at hiding himself around Zitao, so the weeping angel probably already knows that Yifan thinks this is fucked up, but he doesn’t need to hear it outloud. 

  
Sometimes it is nice to hear that everything is okay, even if everything  _ is  _ incredibly, massively, royally  _ fucked. _


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> don't care for me like this

Two nights come and go under snowfall. In that time, Zitao grows a little bit stronger — doesn't cough as heavily and devastatingly, though it unfortunately isn't enough recovery time for him to put on any substantial amount of weight, regardless of Yifan keeping Zitao carb-loaded.

 

As promised, Yifan doesn't take Zitao to the hospital, but he still thinks Zitao is in desperate need of a check up, perhaps even a short stay under the care of actual trained nurses and doctors. Zitao, fragile mentally even more so than physically, had hesitated to admit that, though cheesy and clichéd, just having somebody  _ care _ about him was enough to make him feel better. 

 

Yifan had swallowed thickly at that, mouth going dry, and avoided the younger’s eyes, unsure of his words. 

 

Zitao had laughed, and continued toying with the pages of a book — a well-loved copy of  _ Wuthering Heights _ from Yifan’s personal library — and shrugged softly. 

 

_ “It's okay. I know you don't really, um,” a cough that sounds more like the clearing of a throat. “care.” Zitao says.  _

 

_ This startles Yifan even more, and he looks up in defiance. Has Zitao misinterpreted this whole thing as Yifan just being a good samaritan? Because, despite his profession as a ‘saver of the day’, Yifan had completely wanted to drive away from Zitao a few nights ago, wanted to drive away from the messy chaos that is undoubtedly Zitao’s life, and yet, he took him in more out of a morbid curiosity and interest of him than of a desire to be a good person.  _

 

_ “I do care,” Yifan insists, though his voice isn't very convincing. “It's just — I just,” He pauses, his fists opening and closing in his lap a few times in attempt to grasp his words before they slip through his fingers.  _

 

_ Finally, it comes to him. “I'm not  _ **_allowed_ ** _ to care.” _

 

_ Zitao doesn't know what that means; or rather, he knows exactly what that means and isn't sure  _ **_which_ ** _ meaning is most applicable.  _

 

_ Yifan isn't allowed to care because he is an officer and Zitao is a filthy, thriving prostitute. Zitao should be in prison right now, serving a three year sentence, getting cornered in the showers and sodomized by men so much bigger and meaner than the men that use him now. He should be cowering in his cell and crying at night, writing letters that he will never send, to people who would never respond, anyways.  _

 

_ Technically, Yifan is harboring a fugitive. Zitao isn't exactly on the run from the cops, but his record is substantial enough to warrant an arrest should he ever be caught. _

 

_ Zitao hums softly. “Well… thank you,”  _ **_for everything_ ** _ dies on his tongue, replaced instead with, “for caring.” and a bright, sweet smile. _

 

_ Yifan had simply offered a close-lipped grin in return, and said nothing more _ . 

 

As the brutal blizzard eases its pace well enough for Yifan’s supervisor to call and request him to come in on the morning of Zitao’s third day with him, Yifan feels like the crafty, warm little bubble that has surrounded them for the past two days has finally popped under the pressures of the snow. 

 

Sometime during the first full day they were snowed in, just after Yifan had finished cleaning Zitao’s hands, they had fallen asleep in the same bed, innocently on opposite sides, but Zitao shivered and convulsed violently in his sleep, body so thin and cold that his blood seemed to freeze as it recirculated, and Yifan had woken up sweating with his arms tight around the babe, keeping Zitao warm enough to stop the shivers. 

 

Since then, the physical boundary had broken, and Zitao had clung to Yifan’s sweet embraces, relearned what it felt like to be held in such a kind, gentle manner, and Yifan relearned what it was like to have somebody sweet to hold. 

 

The bed feels lonely with only one person in it, and on that third morning, Zitao sits up sleepily amongst the pillows and blankets, hair sticking up in a spiderweb of different directions, and peers tiredly at Yifan, who is half-dressed in his uniform, standing before the closet. 

 

In the snowy morning light, Zitao looks charmed, and Yifan finds himself wishing he could keep Zitao and keep the snow falling forever in their imperfect, yet safe, little world. 

 

“Do you want me to leave?” Zitao asks, clearing his throat painfully, grimacing at the bloody taste in his mouth and reaching for a half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. He can't remember if it is his or Yifan’s, but promises not to share it after he takes a sip (because he does not want to get Yifan sick), and brings it to his lips. 

 

Cuffing his sleeves, Yifan turns from the closet and faces Zitao, shaking his head almost vehemently at the idea of Zitao leaving. 

 

“No!” He insists, realizing the urgency in his voice and remedying it immediately. “I mean, you don't have to. I’d actually rather you not.”

 

Zitao looks at him like a child, with wide, hopeful eyes, glittering because  _ Yifan cares _ . Zitao knows he cannot impose much longer — maybe one more day, if Yifan will let him, but after that, undesirable individuals will start looking for him, if they haven't already, and Zitao doesn't want to get himself into more painful trouble.

 

But he can worry about going back out into the cold, reviving his illness, and being beaten within an inch of his life by his superior for disappearing and bringing in zero dollars, later. 

 

For now, he is safe, warm, and Yifan wants him to  _ stay _ . 

 

Yifan tells Zitao where everything is — the food in the fridge, the snacks in the pantry, the first aid kit, and a small amount of medicine, enough to tie him over while Yifan is at work, and locks the rest of his over-the-counter stash away. Yifan doesn’t leave more than three pills accessible, which is enough to keep Zitao’s hellish flu away if his symptoms pick up again, but not enough to get him high or kill him. Though Yifan  _ wants  _ to trust Zitao, and everything in his heart is telling him  _ to  _ trust Zitao, he doesn’t know if he can trust the junkie inside of Zitao, the little monster that somebody else planted in his heart. 

 

Yifan writes down his cell phone number and the number to the police station, and leaves them on the nightstand, should Zitao urgently need anything throughout the day. The number to the station is one that Zitao already has memorized from sitting in holding cells, staring at the faded,  _ “Be vigilant. Call if you see any suspicious activity,”  _ posters hanging around the station. He has always wondered why they would hang such posters in the cell holding area, because criminals cannot call the police on themselves, but for some reason, Zitao always found the posters comforting. They gave him confidence in that maybe, one day, he would have the courage to call for help. Of course, he never did, but the teeny, tiny chance still remained, as long as the posters were up. 

 

“I’ll be back around seven. Think you can handle yourself all day?” Yifan asks, leaning against the doorframe, fully dressed with a backpack over one shoulder, and his keys in his hand, and Zitao blinks a few times in surprise. When did Yifan get ready? The last he recalled, Yifan was only half-dressed, and still a bit groggy, but now, here he is, Officer Wu, pristine and alert. 

 

Still, Zitao smiles beside his discomfort that reality seems to be blurring by and passing without him, and nods. “I’ll be okay.” He grins, fisting the comforter in his hands and twisting the fabric around a little bit, and the high school AP Psychology student in Yifan lifts a brow, but Officer Wu stays composed. 

 

“Alright. I’ll call if I get a chance.” He feels like he should be kissing Zitao goodbye, running his fingers through Zitao’s hair, checking his fever one last time, tucking him in. It’s all so  _ clichéd, _ just like glowing orange fireplaces at Christmas, and Yifan wants it to stay. He wants all of these feelings to stay, even if he’s perturbed by the quick onset of them. 

 

He doesn’t kiss Zitao goodbye, however. Doesn’t run his fingers through Zitao’s hair, doesn’t check his fever or tuck him in. He doesn’t even look at Zitao before closing the bedroom door, doesn’t look back at the living room, or the garage, or the apartment complex as he pulls out in the cruiser that he was supposed to drop off at the station three days ago, before going home, because Yifan knows that if he looks back, he’ll call out and go back inside, lay back down with the sweetest, most intriguing boy he has ever met, and forgo his responsibilities, because he doesn’t want to leave Zitao alone ever again. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Yifan cannot focus at work. The station is buzzing, all hands on deck as they recover from a severely short-staffed previous three days, dealing with bookings and charges and hysterical people claiming that their cars were broken into during the heaviest parts of the storm, when really, it was only snow caving in the windshield. Yifan doesn’t care about any of that shit, really. All he can think about is his new, very personal vendetta against heroin dealers in the city. 

 

In contrast to the calm, mostly dark, engaging quietness of the past three days, the fluorescent lighting, sour coffee, and meaningless, disinterested work conversation gives Yifan a headache almost instantly, and the relentless cheerfulness of his former duty partner and newly-promoted superior officer, Junmyeon, isn’t helping anything. 

 

“Have a nice three day vacation?” Junmyeon asks, no cynicism at all to be detected in the brightness of his voice. Junmyeon is a tiny thing, though deceptively strong, both physically and mentally. He is one of those people who believe that they can make a difference, a  _ real, meaningful  _ difference in the world with passion alone. An optimist where some call him naïve.

 

Yifan does not judge him for that — in fact, Yifan wishes he could be like Junmyeon. Passionate, cheerful.  _ Happy _ . Junmyeon is joy where Yifan feigns he is indifference instead of depressed isolation. 

 

Junmyeon is leaning against Yifan’s desk with a black coffee mug in hand, and a very thick, messy manilla file folder in the other, which Yifan eyes wearily. 

 

“Fuck, what kind of fresh hell is  _ that _ ?” Yifan asks, semi-exasperated, and circles around his desk, dropping his backpack haphazardly to the floor beside his chair. 

 

Junmyeon laughs, and settles heavily into the chair across Yifan’s desk, pushing the disaster of a folder towards Yifan’s already unorganized desk. 

 

“New case we’ve been assigned to.” 

 

A phone rings ceaselessly somewhere behind them — probably one of the investigator's desks. 

 

Yifan blows air from between his lips and looks down at the file. Paperclipped to the front is a mugshot that looks a few years old, judging by the booking number and quality of the photo. It is a tall, surprisingly handsome and well-groomed looking man, with a few tattoos on his arms that Yifan can’t discern. 

 

_ Choi Siwon _ , reads the identification plate he is holding. Even in a mugshot, the guy has an arrogant, crooked smile, sleeves of his button down rolled up to his elbows. On his left wrist, Yifan can make out a very expensive-looking watch. Maybe a Rolex or Breitling.

 

“What is he, a tax-evader?” Yifan cocks an eyebrow and looks at Junmyeon, and intuition tips him off that this guy is something more serious than a white-collar criminal.

 

Junmyeon takes a big gulp from his coffee, grimacing a  bit at the sourness from the burned beans in the machine in the lobby.

 

“He's a uh…” Junmyeon coughs into his shoulder. “He's a human sex trafficker.” 

 

Yifan’s jaw drops, and immediately he thinks  _ Zitao _ .

 

“What.” Yifan deadpans, fingers curling around the front page of the folder, and he suddenly has an uncontrolled urge to go home, lock all of the doors, barricade the walls, and tell Zitao to stay put for a little while.

 

Junmyeon bites his lip, gauging Yifan’s reaction and deeming the shock uncharacteristic, but somewhat justifiable. The idea of a prostitution and human trafficking ring being sourced out of their otherwise mundane city is a bit much to wrap the mind around. 

 

“He’s a pimp, putting it short,” Junmyeon explains. “You know those homeless men and women in the old district?”

 

One of Yifan’s hands squeezes the underside of his desk. Yes, he knows those homeless people. One of them is in his bed, wearing his clothes, right now, and all he can think about is returning back to Zitao and coddling him to health. He nods stiffly.

 

Junmyeon continues. “One of them was hospitalized during the storm —”

 

_ That could have been Zitao _ , Yifan thinks. 

 

“Crack overdose. When she came to, she was a nightmare — screaming, demanding opioids from the hospital, you know the type.”

 

Yeah, Yifan does know the type. They're the ones who, for some reason, look so much better than Zitao, which is  _ terrible _ considering that all of the people that Zitao lingers around look like fucking shit, but he doesn’t really care too much for some prostitute’s overdose (unless it is Zitao’s, because Yifan knows now that any overdose with Zitao is actually an attempted murder).

 

“What's your point here?” Yifan asks, itching to read the file and find out of Siwon has any connection to Zitao. 

 

Junmyeon shrugs. “She took an informal plea. Ratted on Siwon in exchange for fixed-dispense morphine to control her pain while in the hospital. All those homeless kids are  _ prostitutes _ , Yifan.”

 

“I thought we knew that already. The old district is where we back off.” Yifan comments, though he knows exactly where Junmyeon is going with this, and doesn't want to hear it and come to gripes with it at  _ all _ . 

 

“We turned a blind eye when we thought there wasn’t any organized crime, but she told us that they were  _ all _ working under Siwon,” Junmyeon sets his coffee mug on Yifan’s desk, his radio starting to go wild. 

 

“Ah, fuck,” Junmyeon stands up, cutting himself off. “Break in on Twenty-fifth. I got have go, but read that,” He points to the file. “This shit is  _ fucked _ , and it’s our top priority now, okay?” And he scurries off, responding to the call on his radio, and Yifan stares at Junmyeon until he disappears. 

 

_ Choi Siwon _ . Human sex trafficking. Yifan realizes that he might actually be harboring a fugitive with Zitao in his house, and everything just got so much more complicated.

 

God, he wishes it had never stopped fucking snowing.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


As promised, Yifan is home by seven. It had started snowing again around three, and hadn't stopped since, so the roads are slick and piled up, but at least he had retrieved his car from the station garage, where he left it three days earlier. His civilian car actually has a working heater too, for which he is grateful.

 

The apartment is as he left it, and after reading Siwon’s file and deciding that it would be best if he talked to Zitao about it in person rather than making a very uncomfortable, monitored phone call from the station, Yifan is relieved to see the snow in the driveway completely untouched. Nobody has come by, and nobody has left, which means, unless Zitao was kidnapped from bed as soon as Yifan drove off, the boy was theoretically still inside. 

 

It is a little cold when Yifan enters the apartment, and he realizes with wide eyes and a quick gasp of  _ oh fuck _ , that he forgot to change the settings of his heater. He has been manually setting the heating unit the past two days, but it resets to automatic if it isn't touched for twelve hours, and Yifan’s automatic settings shut it off during the day when he is usually at work.

 

Zitao must be  _ freezing _ , and Yifan turns the heat up quickly, and tosses his backpack and coat carelessly on the couch, and approaches the bedroom, the entire apartment looking virtually untouched since Yifan left, which doesn't surprise him, because Zitao is as unimposing a house guest as a mouse is to a mansion.  

 

“Zitao?” Yifan is cautious before opening the door, for Zitao is a bundle of nerves only a hairsbreadth away from unraveling.

 

If there is a response on the other side of the door, Yifan certainly does not hear it, deciding to breach the barrier and cross into the bubble once more. 

 

_ Dust _ has not even fallen since Yifan left this morning, that is how eerily still and cold the room is, and for some reason, Yifan’s heart throbs, and his mouth goes dry, fearing the worst — has Zitao been taken? Did he run away? God, it's starting to snow again, is Zitao back out in it in a flimsy loaned sweater and joggers? Choi Siwon could be out looking for him, ruthless and cruel, and Zitao is so thin and sick, he has to stay with Yifan. He has to stay until he's better, and stay longer after that because Yifan can keep him safe and —  _ oh _ . The voices hush. 

 

It has only been a second, perhaps even less since Yifan entered the room, but in that time, his eyes scanned the vicinity, unfocused and hurried, just like his thoughts, but they all calm when he refocuses on the bed and sees the cocooned up figure of Zitao, sleeping in the bed, looking virtually unmoved. 

 

Relief floods Yifan, and something else called love, but he refuses to acknowledge it. 

 

The medicine on the counter is as Yifan left it earlier, still a little cluster of three pills on the nightstand, along with what is now a half-finished blue colored sports drink, and an empty water bottle, both of which were full before Yifan left. It soothes him to know that, if Zitao didn't take the medicine, which was a stretch and Yifan knew it, he was at least replenishing his fluids. 

 

He decides against waking Zitao, deciding instead to contemplate the impending conversation while dressing back into civilian clothing. Yifan's fingers catch on the buttons of his uniform shirt, and he feels burdened by the fabric, burdened by the badge atop his breast, the brand across his forehead, and wonders if Zitao feels the same, only his uniform is one that cannot be shed so easily. 

 

Changed into a pair of sweats and a casual tee shirt, Yifan circles around the bed and lightly approaches Zitao. 

 

The poor kid is worn thin, heart threadbare and exposed to the elements, and has pulled the blankets up high and tight around his body, Yifan only able to see the bridge of Zitao’s nose and his sunken in eyes, followed by messy bedhead. Funny, Yifan had never noticed the girlish, pretty length of Zitao’s eyelashes — an innocent charm, were the skin that his lashes fanned out atop not grey and tight. He wonders how pretty Zitao could be if he weren’t so svelte. 

 

Surely, there has to be something more to that than a simple lack of food — Yifan sees the other lot of individuals like Zitao  _ constantly _ , and they aren’t even a fraction as thin, and if they are, they’re tweaking junkies who live for a high that only lets them down, and Yifan knows well enough that Zitao is not that kind. 

 

Yifan feels like his thoughts are stirring in a pot, and he shakes them all away. Thinking is an evil menace, he has learned. Between his thoughts and his morals lies an area as grey as Zitao’s flesh, and the path to clarity doesn’t seem to exist in situations as fragile as this. Yifan isn’t sure if he has made a mistake with Zitao, or done an incredibly good deed. Perhaps the contradiction of both. 

 

The silence in the room is becoming deafening, no thanks to the internal monologues of a tortured cop and the strained breathing of a whore, and heedlessly, he reaches out and cups Zitao’s teeny shoulder through the blanket, very gently shaking the frail body and hoping morbidly that Zitao hasn’t died in his sleep. 

 

“Tao,” Yifan’s voice sounds loud and grating, like tires through gravel, or boots crushing through fresh, iced-over snow, and he cringes. Does he sound as ugly to Zitao as he does to himself? 

 

“Tao, I need you to wake up.” 

 

Certainly not the kindest wake up call, but it is lovelier than a slap to the face, kick to the ribs, yanking of the hair, and sometimes, all three combined, and Zitao stirs, whining cutely. He reminds Yifan of a stubborn, sleep-deprived university student, running late for an early morning class. (Yifan tries not to think about how, at his core, that really is all that Zitao is supposed to be at his age). 

 

It takes him a moment, but the waifish babe wakes, eyes misty with sleep, mouth dry, and pushes himself up from the bed on arms so shaky that Yifan outstretched a hand just as insurance. He doesn’t want Zitao to faceplant into the pillow beneath him.

 

Zitao looks around, brows furrowed, and stares at his hands as they grasp the sheets and pull him into a world where he is safe and warm and well rested. He has forgotten that he is at Officer Wu’s place, fatigue a wicked menace of the mind, and his heart throbs with the unfamiliarity of his situation. 

 

No matter the discomfort he faces in his own world, the mind retreats to any schema that is familiar, any routine it can recall, and Zitao doesn’t  _ miss  _ sleeping on cold concrete, or sharing a cot at the homeless shelter with a drunkard, but he doesn’t feel quite right sleeping in a bed with sheets and pillows and a warm blanket, either. 

 

Yifan chews his lower lip, hand still gestured towards Zitao, and watches him. How interesting is he, like the broken pieces of a bowl that Yifan had once dropped on the floor as a child. Just as he had when he was a boy, Yifan wants to pick up the pieces, even if they’re sharp enough to cut him. 

 

“Do you know where you are?” Yifan asks softly. This isn’t the first time he has done this in the last three days. Sleeping disorients Zitao, and Yifan has refrained from worrying if Zitao’s poor memory stems from an untreated head injury. Zitao has a lot of untreated problems, and Yifan cannot worry himself with all of them. (He does, anyways. The past few days, he has stayed up up long after Zitao has gone to sleep at night, and listened to the rattling in Zitao’s chest, felt the way Zitao twitches and fights in his sleep, heard the whimpers and murmurs and pretended that he does not understand Mandarin, so he has no idea what Zitao is saying when that whispery, pained voice begs for mercy. Those are not Yifan’s problems to deal with.) 

 

Zitao looks at Yifan, eyes wide. His lips are parted and chapped, and he’s breathing like a marathon sprinter, so Yifan keeps a close eye. 

 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks. 

 

“Yifan.”  Answers Zitao slowly, fingers twisting the blankets together. “How was work?” 

 

Huh. 

 

Yifan blanches at the familiarity of such a question. So domestic and friendly, he wonders if Zitao is crossing a line just by asking (sure, sleeping in Yifan’s bed and wearing his clothes is fine, but asking about Yifan’s  _ day? _ If there is a line to be crossed surely it will not be bothered by something so mundane, and yet, Yifan is mortified). 

 

“Uh,” Yifan clears his throat. “Fine. Busy. Boring.”  _ That’s a paradox _ , Yifan thinks, but Zitao doesn’t seem to notice. The younger simply hums. 

 

Silence, their humble companion, creeps in again, and they sit awkwardly, avoiding each other’s eyes, and Yifan feels like Zitao already knows about their impending conversation, even though it would be truly impossible, unless Zitao is eons more intuitive than Yifan assumes, though he supposes he should stop assuming, because Zitao has proven to be eons more than anything Yifan could have ever imagined. 

 

The clock on the far wall ticks loudly, like a never-ending pulse. Funny, it did not seem so loud when Zitao was sleeping silently, and now it makes loudly its presence known. 

 

Yifan clears his throat again, and Zitao bites his lip, hoping he has not passed along his illness to Yifan. He knows he should not have shared the bed with him — but Yifan was, Yifan  _ is _ , so warm, his body so strong and yet he does not hurt Zitao, and Zitao couldn’t pass up the opportunity to pretend to feel loved, if only for a few short nights. 

 

But of course, Zitao should have swallowed his selfish wants, because now he has gone and gotten Yifan ill. Yifan is going to despise him, think he is filthy if he doesn’t already. Stupid, Zitao thinks. He is so  _ stupid. _

 

Of course, Yifan clearing his throat is only an anxious tick, and has nothing to do with Zitao. 

 

“I’m going to uh,” Yifan rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Make us some food.” 

 

“Alright,” Zitao says softly, and Yifan excuses himself quickly. 

 

As he closes the bedroom door behind him, he hears Zitao say in his pretty, whispery voice,   _ thank you, _ but chooses to ignore it. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


No more than an hour later, as they eat in complete silence, side by side on the bed, Yifan asks, with his mouth half full of watery, salty ramen, “Do you know who Choi Siwon is?” 

 

Zitao freezes, his heart seizing, chopsticks stalling with a wicked tremble, halfway to his mouth, and that seems to be all the answer that Yifan needs, but the officer waits patiently to see what information Zitao will offer him, if any. 

 

Briefly, Zitao considers lying and saying  _ who? _ with his big, innocent eyes, but lying and pulling such an expression only seems to get him into more trouble, and the name Choi Siwon makes Zitao’s blood run cold. 

 

Has Siwon contacted the police office in his absence? Siwon had always warned that he had ways of finding people who tried to run from him, always threatened to report Zitao for prostitution, reminding him that he would have it much worse as a whore in prison than as a whore on the streets, and through fear-mongering and an impossible bounty on Zitao’s freedom, Siwon has managed to wrangle Zitao’s life away. 

 

Three days isn’t too long. Zitao had hoped that he could get away with spending just one more night at Yifan’s safe, warm home, and sneak away in the early hours of the morning, but that doesn’t seem so probable anymore. 

 

Still with his wits about him though, Zitao doesn’t panic, or at the very least, he tries to compose himself enough to answer Yifan’s question without seeming too spooked. He rests his chopsticks back in his bowl, and holds the dinnerware thoughtfully, allowing it to warm his hands. 

 

“I know the name.” Zitao says, nodding stiffly. He is proud that his voice is solid sounding, though all he wants to do is cry. 

 

Yifan lifts a brow, obviously taking more from that answer than Zitao has given, and sips the spicy broth from his spoon. 

 

“Do you know what he does?” 

 

Zitao bites his lip, hands trembling. He feels like he’s back in an interrogation room with Yifan, like that one time he had been arrested for stealing a hot dog, and Yifan had been nice enough to purchase food for him from the vending machine in the hallway. Yifan has never hurt him or tricked him, and yet Zitao finds himself skeptical. If he says too much and gets Siwon in trouble, Zitao has no doubt that Siwon will have him murdered, and Zitao still values his life, if only for people like Yifan. 

 

He decides to play dumb. “Corporate marketing, I think?” He furrows his brows, a convincing actor. “Somebody I… work with… works with him.” 

 

That is not a lie. Everybody Zitao works with works with Siwon. Works  _ for  _ Siwon. And he is the head of marketing at some Fortune 500 company. It is a front for human trafficking, but Zitao had all of Siwon’s lies beaten into him. 

 

If Yifan hadn’t been illicitly trained in reading lies, he would have believed Zitao and left things alone. He is quite an actor. 

 

But Yifan is not just asking for the sake of his job anymore. After reading Siwon’s file and putting two and two together, Yifan had grown immensely concerned for Zitao’s safety, and even more driven to shut down the ring altogether. 

 

He softens, and sets his bowl on the nightstand, gingerly taking Zitao’s and placing it aside as well. He inches closer to Zitao on the bed, trying a different approach by way of his heart.

 

“Don’t lie to me.” Yifan requests gently, reaching for Zitao’s hand, still bandaged with care. Yifan had redressed Zitao’s wounds just before leaving for work, not wanting them to get infected, and truthfully, not wanting to go to his job at all. 

 

Zitao appreciates all of the tender affection, especially that which lies richly in Yifan’s lovely voice, and suddenly he feels safe enough and compelled to spill everything he has bottled away for  _ years _ . There is no safer a confidant than the cop who has only ever protected him. 

 

Unfortunately, Zitao’s insecurities have a voice as loud as his addictions, and they scream at him not to say anything, because it will only make Yifan disgusted with him, so with tears in his eyes, Zitao swallows his words. 

 

“Y-you know I have to go back soon.” Zitao says. He does not say where he must return, or to whom, but Yifan knows anyways. 

 

Something strangely possessive rears its head in Yifan’s heart, and albeit clumsily, he maneuvers himself in front of Zitao, their knees touching as the mattress creaks with the position adjustment. Yifan takes both of Zitao’s hands, savoring everything, even though Zitao’s hands are bony and awkward with the gauze wrapped around them, uncomfortable to hold, even more uncomfortable to be without. 

  
  


“Don't.” There’s an urgency in Yifan’s voice that makes Zitao look up, eyes glistening. 

 

“Don’t…” Yifan has to choose his words carefully, yet he picks them thoughtlessly, deciding to disregard professionalism. For whatever reason, Yifan is drawn to Zitao, wants to protect and take care of him, and he definitely does  _ not _ want to release Zitao back out into the blistering weather and back into the hands of Chou Siwon. 

 

“Don’t leave.” He says. “If you go back, you know what will happen, don't you?” Yifan does not recognize his own voice, listless as he pleads and persuades. 

 

The risks are too high. Zitao could die of sickness — he sounds like he has Tuberculosis, for fuck’s sake. He could get arrested by an officer who is not as kind as Yifan (there are several unsavory characters with too much power at Yifan’s office), and end up thrown in prison, charged with prostitution, perhaps narcotic possession, depending on where he is found, Zitao could be beaten to death by Siwon, he could overdose, or he could suffer, dying slowly as he is now, for years and years to come. 

 

Zitao cannot live like that, and Yifan could not live with himself if he allowed Zitao to go back to that. 

 

“If you help me — uh,  _ us _ ,” Yifan refers to law enforcement. “We can grant you immunity during trial. You’ll be  _ free _ from all of this bullshit, Zitao.” Yifan squeezes Zitao’s hands, voice growing excited  _ for _ Zitao. 

 

But Zitao only sheds tears, lip quivering. It is too good to be true. There is no way Zitao gets a happy ending. If Siwon discovers Zitao is working with the police, which he undoubtedly will if Zitao were to disappear suddenly from his line, Siwon will have him killed. Siwon might even have Yifan killed, and Zitao cannot do that. He cannot put Yifan in that situation. He cannot put himself in that situation. He may be suffering, sick, and  _ miserable _ now, but at least he is  _ alive _ . As long as Zitao is alive and on Siwon’s good side, he can make it day by day. 

 

But, oh, is the dreamer inside of him tempted by Yifan’s offer. Imagining a perfect world where he is immune from prosecution, where he could possibly be free of his binding contract and start life the way he  _ wanted  _ to when he moved, it would be so  _ perfect. _

 

Zitao bites his lip and pulls a hand from Yifan’s, dabbing away his tears. 

 

“Can I think about it?” Zitao asks quietly, and Yifan’s brows soften, lips pursing, and he nods. 

 

Zitao is smart. If he thinks even for a  _ little bit,  _ he will join Yifan’s side, and be protected and safe and  _ freed _ . It is scary to Yifan how quickly he has grown to care about a street whore, and yet here he is hoping with everything that Zitao will stay. 

 

If Zitao stays, Yifan will actually  _ help _ somebody, will actually do something that makes a fucking difference for once, instead of driving up and down the same streets and ignoring the same issues. 

 

“Of course.” Yifan says, smiling softly. 

 

Zitao tries to smile back, but his smile is broken and not very pretty. Yifan thinks that it could be pretty, given some time to heal. 

 

Sniffling softly, Zitao looks down, tugging his sleeves over his hands.

 

“Can I have my soup back?” 

 

Yifan snorts. 

 

“Of course.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Yifan sleeps well through the night, Zitao out like a light after taking medicine for his fever, and coating his throats with a soothing honey tea drink, and, sharing a bed once more, Yifan finds his apartment to be  _ warm  _ for the first time in a while. He goes to bed surprisingly optimistic, certain that Zitao will wake in the morning, a bit unsure and worried, but accepting of the department’s offer. 

 

Around six in the morning, Yifan wakes, stretching his hands high above his head and grumbling about the cold, getting no response from his bedmate, though that does not alarm him. Turning his back from where Zitao has been resting, Yifan reaches on his nightstand for his glasses, groaning softly as he unfolds them and places them on his face. 

 

The very first thing that comes into focus is a yellow note, posted atop his wallet on the nightstand. 

 

Yifan frowns, and plucks it from the leather, bringing it close to his face to read it. 

 

In deceptively pretty, sweet handwriting, it reads: 

 

_ thank you. i'm so, so sorry _ . 

 

Puzzled, Yifan turns over to ask Zitao what it means, and in horror, he realizes why it has been so quiet since he awoke. 

 

Zitao is  _ gone _ . His side of the bed empty, save for wrinkled up blankets and Yifan’s neatly folded clothes that Zitao had worn to bed the night before. 

 

“Fuck,” Yifan curses, sitting up quickly, his heart beat pulsing in his ears. “Zitao?” Yifan calls, throwing the blankets to the side and hurrying to his feet. He checks the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room, even the fucking closet — but the ghost of a soul he had picked up four days ago is  _ gone _ . 

 

“Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ .” Yifan shouts, kicking open the door to his bedroom in frustration. He runs his hands through his hair, glancing about the room.

 

How could Zitao bolt like that? Yifan was  _ positive _ that Zitao would have accepted the offer, was positive that he would have woken up with Zitao harmlessly beside him again. Was Zitao  _ that _ fucking afraid of Siwon? 

 

Yifan paces back to the nightstand and grabs the note again, reading it twice more and flipping it over and over as if more pretty writing would appear. Maybe a tiny sentence of,  _ “i'll be back”,  _ or something else unrealistic and stupid. 

 

Still holding the post-it, Yifan grabs his wallet and mindlessly opens it. 

 

It looks fine, normal, whatever — until he checks the bill-holding compartment. When blizzards are imminent, Yifan always withdraws cash from his bank, just to have on him in case of an emergency, and he had done so before this blizzard struck as well. Big fucking mistake. 

 

Zitao had stolen two hundred dollars from Yifan’s wallet, and Yifan’s heart hardens. 

  
_ Fucking coward _ . 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> relinquish him, foul beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: drug use, sexual assault, language

In the two weeks since the storm, Yifan longs to think that maybe he has forgotten about the thieving prostitute that shared his bed. Like a cliché, Yifan tells himself that he does not scan the holding cells every few hours, silently hoping that he will see Zitao, huddled against the wall, smiling when he sees Yifan, because Zitao  _ always _ smiles when he sees Yifan. Yifan, of course, scans the holding cells every few hours anyways, and always returns to his desk a bit disappointed to see that the streets have not yet given up their valuable gem. 

 

Yifan does his work just as he always has — disinterestedly, placidly, while sipping burned coffee and trying to keep his eyes drawn away from the buzzing, headache-inducing fluorescents above, and his thoughts drawn away from Zitao’s too-thin body out braving the elements. 

 

Siwon’s disturbing case has been tabled for the time being, the officers assigned to the case, excluding Yifan, deciding it better to focus on the War on Drugs, considering that this winter has brought in an alarming amount of heroin and cocaine trafficking. Yifan was the only officer who thought that human trafficking was a bigger deal, and upon losing that little debate, he only feels more bitter and dejected, and feels just a little bit more resentment towards Zitao. 

 

If only Zitao had just taken the fucking offer. If he agreed to work with the station then things would be so different. Yifan would be a hero, Yifan would change lives, instead of ruining them. Zitao had fucked over  not just Yifan, but all of the other whores under the bridge too, and for what reason? Fear? 

 

Yifan cannot believe Zitao is  _ so afraid _ of Choi Siwon. It infuriates him. 

 

Of course, most of this resentment is displaced; misunderstandings that Yifan does not yet know how to clear. Maybe deep down, he knows that Zitao had to have a valid reason for stealing from him and disappearing into the night. Maybe Yifan does not understand the magnitude of Siwon’s power, maybe Yifan should give Zitao the benefit of the doubt and be a good samaritan, and not let detestment and petty money theft sway the issue. 

 

And when he thinks like that, Yifan’s heart warms up and begins beating again, until his mind beats it into submission. Zitao very well could have been feeding Yifan mouthfuls of bullshit during the blizzard, with his tearful  _ ‘I’m three days sober’,  _ meltdown.Junkies lie, addicts manipulate and do anything for their next high, and while two hundred is quite a hefty amount to steal for a heroin fix, Yifan is hesitant to give Zitao a free pass. 

 

_ (He is also hesitant to give Zitao a nasty label such as ‘addict.’ If Zitao’s wretched sobs into Yifan’s arms and trembling monologues given during his slumber had been but a ploy to steal money for drugs, Zitao is the  _ **_greatest_ ** _ actor on the planet. Zitao’s tears had been too real to be fake, and Yifan knows that, and maybe that is what is bothering him so badly.) _

 

“Are you going to sulk all month, or is this the new you?” Oh Sehun, a junior investigator and royal pain in the ass, stumbles in front of Yifan’s desk, knocking absently to get Yifan’s attention, drawing him from his repose.

 

Yifan clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and rolls his eyes, turning his attention to the computer, staring at his own reflection in the black screen. Had he really just blanked out for God knows how long? Yifan needs to stop worrying about Zitao so much, because he is fairly certain that Zitao has not so much as  _ looked  _ in the direction of a police officer since skirting away from Yifan. 

 

“Do you need something from me?” Yifan asks, feeling the irritability of the past two weeks creep up his throat, but Sehun does not seem to notice or care. The station is stifling, and sometimes officers step on each other’s toes. Bad attitudes are all apart of the job. 

 

“Oh, don’t act like you weren’t sitting here daydreaming of clocking out,” Sehun rolls his eyes and plops down heavily in the seat across from Yifan’s desk, and Yifan bites the inside of his cheek. 

 

“I’ve been talking to Junmyeon about making the Siwon case a priority again.” Sehun muses.

 

Yifan snorts and spares him a glance. “Yeah? And how’s that going?” He turns to his computer and shakes the mouse to wake the screen back up, navigating mindlessly to his files, where all of the pressing (though mostly boring) information about the oh-so- _ important _ Choi Siwon case has been transferred. 

 

Sehun groans and loosens his tie. “Fucking red tape. Junmyeon doesn’t think prioritizing injustices is a good idea either, but the impending ‘ _ El Chapo _ ’ cocaine epidemic is more of a hit for news networks than a gang of forced sex workers, apparently.” 

 

Yifan picks up on the cynicism, and is reminded of how green Sehun is. He is not an optimist like Junmyeon, nor is he indifferent like Yifan — but rather, Sehun is an  _ activist _ . He wants things done right away, wants change and effort and the world to be a better place. 

 

Yifan wishes he could be like that, too. Anything would be better than the jaded, cruel bastard that the stagnant nature of bureaucracy and civil service has hardened him into. 

 

“Bullshit.” Yifan grumbles. 

 

“Right?” Sehun agrees, riled up that somebody seems to see the validity in the Choi Siwon case.

 

“Heroin is the new date rape drug, anyways.” Yifan says, though he does not mean to say it out loud, and tries to gloss over it quickly, but Sehun is nosey and persistent, and leans forward, eyes wide. 

 

“ _ What? _ ” 

 

Yifan clears his throat, and avoids Sehun’s eyes. Zitao has been worrying him and Yifan is not even consciously  _ aware _ . 

 

“Nothing.” He says quickly, glossing through some pages in Siwon’s file. The twisted fuck has an impressive rap sheet, Yifan will give him that. 

 

“I had a lead on it.” Yifan says, looking at Sehun again and adding, “On the case.” 

 

Sehun’s eyebrows lift as if he does not believe Yifan, and in all honesty, Yifan does not even know if he believes himself. Had Zitao ever been a lead? Has Zitao ever been anything more to anybody other than a disappointment? 

 

(God, even  _ thinking  _ that made Yifan feel like a piece of shit.) 

 

“What happened?” Sehun deadpans, and the words do not even sound like a question — just a sardonic entertainment of conversation. 

 

It makes Yifan angry for some reason. 

 

“Nothing,  _ obviously. _ The lead fell through and so did the case.” 

 

Sehun looks like he has other questions, but Yifan is really not in the mood, and shuts him down quickly. 

 

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Go track down El Chapo or something.” 

 

Sehun’s lips curl up into an offended snarl, and he stands to his feet, shrugging. “No need to be an asshole.” He mumbles. “I’ll see you later or something.” 

 

Sehun treks off, and Yifan feels angry with himself once again. What a volatile authority figure he is turning out to be! Perhaps Zimbardo was right, and Yifan is not as immune to the psychological inevitable as he supposed.  

 

Or maybe he is just bitter and upset and worried about Zitao, no matter how hard he tries to tell himself that he is not. 

 

Yifan has been on patrol several times since the blizzard, and not  _ once  _ has he seen Zitao. Not by the library, not at the gas stations, not under bridges or sleeping on benches and parks. It worries him, though he supposes Zitao could have taken the money, gotten a bus ticket, and skipped town. It certainly is not a  _ bad  _ idea, though every time Yifan thinks Zitao might have left, he recalls the pure terror in Zitao’s eyes when Siwon’s name was mentioned. 

 

If Zitao is really  _ that  _ scared, there is no possible way he would leave. 

 

Still, Yifan feels as though he has fallen in love with a ghost, chasing shadows and turning down streets looking for somebody who does not exist. Maybe this entire time, Zitao has been a fever dream. 

 

Fuck, Yifan shakes his head and reaches for his cup of burned coffee. He is fucking going insane over Zitao. 

 

He never should have taken that turn downtown. 

  
  
  
  
  


It is beginning to snow again, and Yifan is ten minutes from clocking out, and in the middle of a hushed debate about the Siwon case with Junmyeon, when he receives a distress call for backup from Officer Im Jaebum, citing a cryptic  _ domestic incident.  _

 

Junmyeon sighs and waves Yifan off. “We’ll talk more later. I’ll ask the investigators about possible leads.” 

 

Yifan nods, gratefully, and waves to Junmyeon, grinning. “Yeah and don’t forget my overtime.” He teases on his way out. Junmyeon laughs and rolls his eyes, getting back to his work. 

 

Yifan is not looking forward to responding, mostly because he had mentally checked out from duty about thirty minutes earlier, and just wanted to go home and take a long shower and maybe have a glass or two of whiskey, but his leisure will have to wait until after he pacifies what he anticipates to be a drunken couple having a fight. 

 

Jaebum’s coordinates are at some sleazy motel in the more crime-prone, old downtown area, just a few blocks away from where Yifan picked up Zitao, and Yifan hates the slight hopefulness in his heart that maybe it is Zitao, only because it will reassure Yifan that Zitao is, at the very least, alive. 

 

He takes his turns slowly through the snow, lights flashing to yield him the right-of-way against traffic, but siren off. He is not chasing anybody, and the siren gives him a headache anyways.

 

As he pulls up to the motel, so far not seeing any disturbance other than Jaebum’s cruiser in the snow-dusted parking lot, and a handful of kids that were undoubtedly hotboxing a car before Jaebum showed up, Yifan begins to mentally prepare himself for whatever it is that he is about to walk into. With police brutality increasingly common, Yifan tries to make himself as nonthreatening as possible, but that does not mean he does not become afraid, just as anybody else would walking into an unknown situation with criminals.

 

He pulls up next to Jaebum’s car, noting that it is empty, and radios the officer. 

 

“Officer Im, I’m facing north in the parking lot, where are you?” 

 

Yifan has his hand on his gun, per his training, because for all he knows, a screeching banshee could come running out at him. 

 

The radio atop his shoulder crackles noisily, making Yifan cringe, and Jaebum’s fuzzy voice comes out through the speaker.

 

_ “West side, near the dumpster.”  _

 

Beginning to feel adrenaline and anticipation well up in the base of his throat, Yifan confirms the location and begins to circle around the ratty motel. His senses are hyper aware, for while Jaebum did not sound entirely too distressed, Yifan knows the fault in an officer’s voice.

 

It is ice cold outside, the snow happy to be falling, and Yifan is grateful for his already thick uniform, coupled with his coat, because together they keep his hands from shaking. 

 

Jaebum comes into view first, standing several feet away from the west wall of the building, and Yifan instantly relaxes a bit seeing how Jaebum’s posture is somewhat subdued. There is no immediate threat to their safety, and Yifan wonders what possibly could've prompted a backup call. 

 

Of course, when he circles around, his blood runs cold. 

 

The motel is haunted, there is a ghost sitting on the sidewalk. 

 

It is Zitao and another person — a man who looks belligerently drunk or high, probably both, but Yifan does not give a fuck about him. 

 

His heart melts, and throbs painfully in his chest, eyes growing wide, lips parted. Yifan’s breath comes out in short puffs, condensation blooming around him. 

 

Zitao looks like  _ hell. _

 

He is not too noticeably thinner, which Yifan supposes is a good thing, but what he has not lost in body mass, he has lost in dignity. 

 

The battered soul is crying, rough, unfinished diamonds scraping down bloodied cheeks, an ugly bruise blossoming along his jaw and throat, and in the frigid winter, he is barely clothed, wearing only a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved blue shirt, stained with

blood, with one of the sleeves ripped off. His arms have been forced behind his back, and Yifan notices in horror the grotesque nature in which Zitao’s arm has been twisted and cuffed. 

 

_ Somebody  _ had broken Zitao’s arm. 

 

Any residual anger Yifan had felt towards Zitao for the events that transpired two weeks earlier falls away, replaced by a fierce protectiveness. 

 

“What the  _ fuck _ did you do?” Yifan cries out, his feet mindlessly carting himself over to where Zitao sits, beaten by the dumpster. 

 

Jaebum sputters in surprise, and the perpetrator sitting opposite Zitao curses and tries to scramble away from Yifan, mumbling something about pigs that Yifan ignores. 

 

Feeling thoroughly awkward and unsure of how to process Yifan’s behavior, Jaebum takes a few steps forward. “Officer, I don't think that's appropriate.” 

 

Yifan ignores him and runs his fingers over Zitao’s thin shoulders, tugs softly at his torn shirt sleeve in attempt to cover more skin, but the movement jostles Zitao’s broken arm, and the prostitute whines out pathetically and flinches away from Yifan, movements sluggish and delayed. 

 

Gently, wary of Zitao’s bruised jaw, Yifan tips a finger under the babe’s chin and lifts his head just enough to make eye contact.

 

Thoughtlessly, the words, “ _ Oh, baby _ ” slip through Yifan’s lips with only the sound of Yifan’s heart breaking.

 

Zitao is drugged out of his  _ fucking _ mind. 

 

His pupils are tiny little specks despite how dark it is outside, his breathing is slow, and when he blinks, his eyes linger shut for far too long before he jerks himself awake. He mumbles unintelligible nonsense, and his head lolls heavily on his neck, falling to the side when Yifan releases him, and Yifan feels so fucking sick, because he had been so angry with Zitao — so angry that he had even, in the heat of the night when his thoughts consumed him, spitefully hoped that Zitao would be  _ worse _ off to learn a lesson, but he had felt awful soon after thinking such things, and now he feels awful for thinking them to begin with, seeing as now Zitao actually  _ is _ worse off.

 

The only lesson Zitao needs to learn is one of compassion and care.

 

“How did this happen?” Yifan throws his voice toward Jaebum, reaching to his belt for a key to unlock Zitao’s handcuffs. 

 

When Jaebum does it immediately answer, Yifan whips his head around and asks again, voice loud and authoritative, “How did this  _ happen?” _

 

Zitao sobs at the noise, but Yifan keeps a hand on the younger’s knee to steady him. 

 

Jaebum does not seem to appreciate the patronizing, and rolls his eyes, coming forward to yank Zitao’s drunken and cursing client up by his shirt roughly, and suddenly it becomes  _ very _ apparent how things transpired. 

 

“I mediated a junkie whore and his fuckup client while  _ you _ took your sweet ass time getting here.” Jaebum snaps back, yanking the other man forward and guiding his stumbling ass around the building to be shoved into the back of a cruiser. 

 

Yifan is  _ fuming _ . He wants to push Jaebum to the ground, and in a terrifying flash of violence, imagines himself beating Jaebum’s face in until blood sprays across the pretty snow. Zitao is  _ not _ a  _ junkie whore _ .

 

The gruesome vision passes Yifan quickly, however, reds replaced with the soft hues of compassion, and his heart, kinder than he gives credit for, gives in to the desire. 

 

The snow is coming down a bit heavier, it is only getting colder outside, and Zitao is beginning to grow delirious and panic. 

 

Whatever Jaebum  _ thinks _ he has done, he has certainly not mediated the situation.

 

“Officer Wu,” Zitao gasps out, mouth feeling uncomfortably dry. He starts crying again, peering at Yifan with heartbreaking, terrified eyes. 

 

“He’s gonna take me to jail,” Zitao slurs his words, tongue heavy and slow in his mouth, something Yifan recognizes to be an effect of heroin. 

 

Choking on a sob, Zitao shakes his head violently. “I’m sorry. I can't go.” He whimpers like a mantra. “I can't go, I can't go,  _ I can't I can't i can't— _ ”

 

“You're not going to prison.” Yifan shushes him, steady and firm, and very carefully kneels behind Zitao to uncuff him. When Zitao is sober, he will be more visibly concerned, but Zitao is not in his mind, and the unmovable certainty in Yifan’s voice seems to ground him.

 

“He's gonna charge me. It’s not my fault though,” Zitao’s voice shatters into hysterical sobs.

 

A wicked idea filters through Yifan’s mind, and he licks his lips and carefully rolls the handcuffs around Zitao’s wrists until he finds the keyhole.

 

“He can’t charge you. You're immune, remember?”

 

Zitao had never agreed to that, but it is far too easy to manipulate him into agreeing to something when he is so far gone (and that alone makes Yifan nauseous, and he pushes away wonderment about just how  _ much  _ is taken from Zitao when he is like this).

 

Zitao shivers violently in the snow, confused, and bites his lip. He moves in slow motion, processes words slowly and differently, with colors and feelings, and Yifan’s words make him feel warm, like orange hues and yellow rays. 

 

“Promise?” Zitao hums, mindlessly agreeing to whatever Yifan is suggesting. Officer Wu has never hurt him or lied to him before.

 

“I promise.” Yifan suddenly feels heavy and a bit ill,but tells himself that this is for Zitao’s own good, and pockets the handcuffs.

 

The officer’s stomach churns when he further examines Zitao’s right arm, broken in two different areas, which alone is enough to make anybody queasy, but to add color, it is beginning to bloom a sickly green and purple. The bone itself will take weeks to heal; Yifan does not want to think about how much longer such a grotesque, twisted blossom will take to fade, given the state of Zitao’s non-existent immune system. 

 

One of Yifan’s biggest concerns had been violated. Jaebum had been too rough with Zitao’s body. He probably wrestled Zitao to the ground, despite Zitao obviously being a victim in the situation, and Zitao, drugged and confused, might have pushed back or resisted. Yifan supposes that somewhere in the commotion, Jaebum had snapped Zitao’s arm. 

 

God, just the  _ thought _ makes Yifan see red, and it takes everything in him not to lurch when Jaebum returns. 

 

“Did you — what the  _ fuck _ ?” Jaebum curses, hand poised on his gun when he sees Zitao uncuffed, and when Zitao panics and tries to move away, Jaebum yells at him not to move. 

 

Zitao is crying again, but he stills, cradling his injured arm to his chest and keeping his eyes trained on the snow. He thinks after all of this he might hate police officers, with the exception of Officer Wu. God, his arm really,  _ really  _ hurts, and looking at it only makes him more upset.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now, Jaebum?” Yifan sneers. 

 

Does Jaebum  _ really _ think Zitao is a fucking threat? Enough so to have his hand on his gun, ready to shoot? Not only is Zitao  _ obviously _ in no condition to fight or be hostile, but even if he were, Jaebum has a good sixty pounds of pure muscle against Zitao, a starved out, drug addicted prostitute. 

 

“I called you here so you could take him for processing, not set him free. What the fuck are you doing?” 

 

“No, what the fuck are  _ you  _ doing?” Seeing that Jaebum has the intent to restrain Zitao again (for no God damned reason, either), Yifan stands before him. 

 

“Are you  _ seriously  _ going to sit here and tell me that he’s a  _ threat _ to you? C’mon, Jaebum, are you that big of a fucking pussy?” Yifan gestures wildly to Zitao. “He’s one hundred and twenty pounds and has pneumonia, for God’s Sake!”

 

Jaebum stares at Yifan, bewildered and insulted that Yifan would doubt his judgment, even if Yifan was his senior. 

 

“You know what?” Jaebum starts towards the pair again, this time stepping off to the side where Yifan had carelessly tossed the handcuffs away, and plucks the restrains from the ground. “I’ll fucking do it.”

 

Just as Yifan had not earlier been in the mood for Sehun, Yifan  _ definitely  _ is not in the mood to put up with Jaebum’s incessant brutality, and he cuts the younger officer off before he has a chance to lay a finger on Zitao. 

 

To Yifan, there  _ is  _ no explanation for violence. Anybody with common sense would have been able to assess whatever situation Zitao was in before as a non-consensual act. The police are supposed to  _ protect  _ victims, not hurt them even more. 

 

“Don’t you  _ dare _ .” Yifan holds a hand up, stopping Jaebum, who has his mouth open, holding the cuffs tightly, having wrestled them open. 

 

“I’ll let  _ you  _ take this to Junmyeon and explain to him why, instead of neutralizing a situation, you escalated it —  _ and  _ caused bodily harm to a civilian who has been authorized under  _ our  _ protection.” 

 

Jaebum snaps the handcuffs shut around air. “You're lying. He isn't under our protection program.” 

 

Jaebum is right, Zitao is not  _ officially _ authorized under police protection, but Yifan is already gaslighting one person, why not try for another and hope his luck stretches so thin? 

 

“Ask Sehun about the Choi case. And then tell Junmyeon that you broke our only lead’s arm. And get the  _ fuck _ away from here.”

 

Yifan is terrifying when he is upset, and Jaebum falls defeated, not harboring the energy to fight any more, and when he retreats back to the station with his tail between his legs, and a vomit-soaked back seat, it suddenly feels frighteningly silent, and Yifan turns to Zitao with a sigh.

 

It does not surprise him, though it  _ does _ concern him, when he sees that sometime during the commotion, Zitao had wedged himself against the dumpster and fallen unconscious, his head rolled back on his neck, still cradling his injured arm. The battered babe’s lips are a frigid blue, and if it weren't for the short, steady puffs of vapor coming from his breath, Yifan would fear that Zitao had overdosed. 

 

Tentatively, careful as to not startle him, Yifan knees before Zitao and gently taps his cheek, feeling severe deja vu. Just two weeks ago, he had done this exact same thing, simply under different circumstances.

 

Relief floods Yifan, breaking a dam he did not know he had built, when Zitao comes to at Yifan’s touch, clearly lost and reeling in what Yifan could only imagine to be a drug trip from hell. At the very least, Zitao is conscious and somewhat responsive. 

 

Zitao stares at Yifan, eyes filmy, gaze unfocused, before his expression scrunches up into a pre-requisite of a pained wail, however the only noise Zitao makes is a sad little gasp, and he looks down at his arm, apparently having forgotten it is broken.

 

“Shh, shh,” Yifan quickly hushes the addled prostitute before he can begin to cry, and shrugs off his coat. Gently, Yifan peels Zitao away from the trash bin and very carefully, so as not to move the injured arm, drapes his jacket along Zitao’s shoulders. Zitao feels small and breakable beneath Yifan’s fingers, and Yifan bites the inside of his cheek. 

 

The cold sinks into Yifan’s skin almost immediately, despite him wearing long sleeves and a vest and multiple other layers of clothing — he cannot begin to imagine how Zitao feels, if Zitao feels anything at all.

 

Oh, how desperately does he wish to pull Zitao into his arms, hug him tightly and chastise,  _ “Don't you dare scare me like this again,” _ or promise like a star-crossed lover,  _ “I won't let anybody touch you ever again,” _ but Yifan knows that he cannot yet do either of those things. Instead, he gives Zitao’s shoulders the  _ lightest _ of squeezes, and gingerly guides him to his feet.

 

Smiling softly, somewhat melancholic, feeling all of the moments and impulses slip away from him, Yifan says fondly, “What am I going to do with you?” 

  
  
  
  


Yifan is well accustomed to hospitals, but that does not mean he enjoys them. He finds them suffocating, stifling. The air never feels clean, always smells faintly of mildew; the .01% of pathogens that antibacterials cannot eradicate, resilient to all disinfectants. 

 

Yifan also does not like to deal with hysterical people, which is unfortunate, considering that his job is ninety-four percent hysterical people, five percent paperwork and slow municipal wireless, and one percent whatever Zitao is. 

 

Hysterical, maybe. 

 

If Zitao had a blacklist, a set of hard limits, Yifan knows that  _ going to the hospital _ would be at the very top, but a broken arm cannot be fixed at home, and quite frankly, it is about time Zitao goes to a place that can care for him (without actually caring for him). Yifan is fairly sure that Zitao will understand once he sobers up, which he is bound to do quickly. 

 

A police officer stumbling into the emergency room with a drugged rape victim had certainly turned an already chaotic environment into a genuinely godless one, and a doctor that Yifan recognized quickly, Zhang Yixing, was called to the case. 

 

Yixing is a fun person, one of Junmyeon’s friends that became one of Yifan’s friends. He is great with children, charming to the elderly, and passionate about the safety of the youth, and it is instantly apparent that Zitao is young and very unsafe. 

 

Yifan trusts Yixing with Zitao. He trusts Yixing’s gentle hands and soft voice, trusts that Zitao is not going to wake up only to be in even more pain than before. Confused, maybe, but it is not Yixing who will hurt Zitao.

 

He is reluctant to leave Zitao in the hospital and return to the station, because Yifan fears that waking up alone in a hospital will trigger the battered love into a panic, and Yifan wants to believe that maybe having a familiar face will ease any stresses, but he is technically still on duty, and Junmyeon surely wants his head on a platter if Jaebum has already gone and cried victim to him.

 

Fortunately, (or unfortunately, depending on if one is an optimist or pessimist, of which Yifan feigns he is a realist), Zitao will not be waking for at least another day, which buys Yifan enough time to figure things out at work, and leave behind his feelings.

  
  
  
  
  


After about an hour, finally comfortable enough with Zitao’s vitals to break away for a moment, Yixing tracks down Yifan, standing in line at the half-closed cafe, paying for a coffee.

 

“You disappear quickly.” Yixing muses, appearing beside Yifan. He begins walking back towards the elevators with Yifan. 

 

Yifan hums, thoughts elsewhere, and holds the cheap paper coffee cup to his lips, but does not actually take a sip. His eyes are far away, and Yixing notices, but says nothing. Yifan’s relationship with Zitao, while intriguing, is none of his business. 

 

“He’s in the ICU, if you need to see him. He’s not awake but he’s stable.” 

 

No shit Zitao is in the ICU, but Yifan keeps his sarcasm to himself. The elevator doors ding open, and a nurse who has obviously just clocked out, wearing scrubs with little stars on them, bows her head slightly as she passes by them and heads home. Yifan envies her. 

 

“I'm guessing he’s pretty sick, right?” Yifan asks, stepping onto the elevator with Yixing and allowing the doctor to press the correct floor number. 

 

Interestingly enough, they do not make eye contact. Perhaps they are not familiar enough with each other. Yifan is a stranger to almost everyone in his life except for Zitao, and he has been told he is quite intimidating, and the blue uniform most likely does not help. 

 

The elevator is uncomfortably quiet, inspected recently and working perfectly, so there is not even the groaning of cables as they pass by floors to pacify the silence. 

 

Yixing looks at Yifan, though Yifan does not look at him. 

 

“He’s  _ very _ ill,” Yixing says, slowly as though he is choosing his words very carefully, studying Yifan’s reactions. The minuscule tick of his brow, the way his fingers tense around his cup every so slightly. 

 

How curious. This Zitao patient is much more than just an injury off of the street. 

 

The elevator eases to a stop after what feels like forever, opening to the isolated,  _ sad _ ward that is the Intensive Care Unit. 

 

The ICU feels worse than the ER. There is no urgency to mask tragedy here, though sometimes a patient takes a rapid turn for the worse, somebody codes and a rush of nurses and doctors flood into the teeny room in attempt to breathe life into somebody dying, but those frantic, chaotic moments are far between. The ICU is simply overwhelmed by a suffocating helplessness, full of mostly terminal patients, or patients with grim prognoses, and tearful family members trying to make arrangements. 

 

Yifan hates it. 

 

“You already know how sick he is, don't you?” Yixing asks, and Yifan is sure that if any other person had asked, the question would be riddled with cynicism. Yixing’s voice is pleasant and non-accusatory, however, which Yifan supposes is a good thing in a place like this. 

 

The hallway that Zitao is in is shaped like a big U, with a waiting room in the basin and the patients along the legs, and Yifan nods grimly at one of the families in the waiting room that are tearful, but optimistic. He hopes things work out for them. 

 

Begrudgingly, Yifan admits, “I have an idea.”

 

Yes, Yifan already knows Zitao is sick. Two weeks ago, Zitao was  _ very sick _ , and Yifan is dreading how  _ very very sick _ Zitao is now. 

 

Zitao’s room is all by itself at the end of the hall. There is only one room beside him, harboring an older man surrounded by friends and family and balloons and flowers and Yifan wants to fucking  _ cry  _ because the juxtaposition of Zitao’s room, fucking empty except for Zitao, smack in the middle looking translucent and ill and tiny, is jarring and pathetic.

 

There are no flowers or balloons, no teddy bears holding  _ Get Well Soon! _ cards or friends and family lined up at the door to support him. There is _ nobody _ here for Zitao except for Yifan, and Yifan is only here on a technicality.

 

Instead of a bundle of balloons, there is a compressor beside his bed, hissing and inflating with air in rhythm with the rise and fall of Zitao’s chest, a tube wrestled down his throat. There are IV’s of saline solution and what Yifan  _ knows _ are narcotics administered to relieve pain stuck into odd parts of his body. His upper arm, above a bulky and heavy looking cast, jabbed into his leg, which has been elevated in a sling to allow the medicine to circulate. 

 

Zitao’s hands are bandaged up again, rendering it impossible to administer any medicine via the veins in his hands. Yifan feels somewhat dejected to know that beneath those bandages, the love and care with which he had treated Zitao’s wounds just two weeks earlier, has been completely eradicated.

 

“He’s a heroin addict.” is all Yifan can think to say currently. Somewhere in the back of his mind is a script of questions he  _ should _ be asking so he can go back to the station and write a report, but all Yifan can think about is how Zitao is a fucking  _ heroin _ addict who is so desperate to stay sober and he will be absolutely devastated when he wakes up and finds that his sobriety has been betrayed by his own pain. 

 

Yixing does not seem too bothered. He crosses the room to the computer mounted in the far wall and pulls up Zitao’s chart, glancing at it briefly for a memory refresher. 

 

“Yeah, I know. Getting a drip started was a nightmare. He has two collapsed veins and the rest roll,” Yixing glances at Zitao. “There’s a blossom of bruises on his shoulder —,” He looks at Yifan, saying his next words very deliberately. “Those  _ aren't  _ from him. They're from us. We had a problem locating a vein.”

 

Yifan just stares dryly at Zitao. 

 

_ I’m three days sober _ . Zitao had said two weeks earlier. 

 

Yixing waits for Yifan’s response, staring at him and stewing in his own perception, and when it becomes apparent that Yifan is not going to reply, he continues. 

 

“We gave him Narcan, so stop staring at him like dilaudid is going to kill him.” 

 

“Narcan.” Yifan deadpans, looking at Yixing. 

 

Yixing smiles wryly. “Yes, Narcan.” He nods, confirming. 

 

Narcan is nothing short of a miracle drug that reverses the effects of heroin. Even firefighters carry it now, and it is quickly becoming a town favorite. Yifan wonders if he can get a few vials to keep at home. 

 

“He might not experience withdrawal because he’s  _ still _ technically drugged out of his mind, but if he does, we have Suboxone on standby.”

 

“Suboxone.” Yifan repeats again, and he feels incredibly stupid. He vaguely knows what that is — another miracle drug to ease heroin withdrawal symptoms — but he feels incompetent because this entire time, he has wanted nothing more than to get Zitao to a hospital, and now that Zitao actually  _ is _ resting in a hospital bed with proper care, all Yifan can do is stare at him in shock. 

 

What the  _ fuck _ was he expecting? 

 

The hospital bed and machines do not look right next to Zitao. They are too big and cold and Zitao is small and needs warmth. He looks  _ really _ bad in the bed, looks sicker than he did two weeks ago, sicker than he did two hours ago when he passed out on that curb. Has he always looked this sick? 

 

Yixing seems to see the thousand-yard-stare of a person who has just come to terms with the fact that they very well may lose a loved one in the coming days very often, and he clears his throat softly. 

 

“I’ll give you a moment with him and then come back for the report briefing, alright?” Yixing circles around the bed and gives Yifan’s shoulder somewhat of a grounding squeeze, and retreating to wherever or whomever needs him presently. 

 

Yifan does not say anything, and he only moves to lean against Zitao’s bedframe, his hands clenching the handrail until his knuckles match the clean white metal of the rail itself. 

 

Yifan needs to get back to the station, he knows, but Zitao is more pressing than whatever mundane HR meeting he’ll have to go to when he gets back to work. Something feels terribly wrong with leaving Zitao alone, and he has an unshakable feeling that the hospital is not as secure or safe as it should be. 

 

Zitao is, as of Yifan’s clever manipulation, under protection of the police department from now until Choi Siwon’s conviction, but Siwon is still missing in action, and Zitao is still wholly unsafe. 

 

Yifan does not like to look at the bruises on Zitao’s face, or the way his lips are chapped and have been slathered in vaseline to keep them from cracking or bleeding around the tube down his throat, so he instead stares at Zitao’s bedside table. 

 

There is nothing on it, and Yifan is again reminded of how alone Zitao is. 

 

Sighing heavily, feeling awfully jaded in his youth, Yifan pushes away from Zitao’s bed and leaves the room, saying a quiet prayer that Zitao does not die while he is out. 

 

Yixing sees him, and makes a move to break away from the nurse he is with to brief Yifan, but Yifan pointedly ignores the doctor. He is not interested in everything wrong with Zitao — not yet, at least. 

 

Stare blank, Yifan ignores everyone around him, and fishes in his pocket for his wallet, fiddling with the leather as he waits for an elevator. He takes the elevator all the way back down to the first floor of the hospital, where it is quiet and dark and the illnesses are hidden, and goes straight to the gift shop. 

 

He buys a bright green and blue balloon that says  _ Get Well Soon! _ and a small teddy bear with a gold and white bow tie that is holding a card that also boasts a message of wellness.

 

Yifan takes the card off of the bear and pretends he does not notice the odd way that Yixing is staring at him, a solemn officer carrying a balloon and bear from the cheap gift shop to a solitary prostitute. If Yixing were an onlooker, he would have thought Yifan and Zitao to be estranged lovers. 

 

Zitao is still out like a light, sounding more peaceful than he looks, when Yifan stumbles back into his room without a word, and sets the stuffed animal on the end table, and lets the balloon float idly and unimposing behind the left corner of Zitao’s bed. 

 

Honestly, it is still pathetic and sad, Yifan’s anonymous little contributions to adding humanity and compassion to the room, but it looks better. It looks nicer than an empty room, and perhaps Zitao will think the same. 

 

Hopefully when he wakes, Zitao will not feel as hopeless and disappointed in the world as Yifan does. 

 

Perhaps it is time Yifan stops labeling himself as indifferent and begins labeling himself as a pessimist.


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> please don't touch the art

Yifan barely manages to smooth-talk his way out of a suspension for lying at work. He claims to Junmyeon that he had not been  _ intentionally _ lying — Zitao had technically agreed to think about the immunity offer, and Yifan simply could not let the only and  _ only _ cooperative lead on the Siwon case be sent to prison. 

 

( _ Technically _ this is not a lie, but it certainly benefits Yifan’s ulterior motives.) 

 

With an irritated sigh, Junmyeon had let Yifan off with a slap on the wrist and reopened the Siwon case, much to the delight of both Yifan and Sehun. Junmyeon, too, is pleased to be one step closer to putting an end to injustices, but must be more partial in reaction thanks to his superior position. 

 

Now that the Siwon case has a promising lead, Junmyeon takes it upon himself to create a ‘dream team’ consisting of himself, Yifan, a lawyer by the name of Do Kyungsoo, and a small team of investigators that include the likes of Park Chanyeol and Sehun. 

 

Yifan is not exactly  _ thrilled _ to have such a large number of people breathing down the flighty Zitao’s neck, but it is all for the greater good. He just hopes he can keep them away from Zitao long enough to chew the younger out for robbery.

 

Not even two days after admitting his sweet problem child to the hospital, Yixing calls Yifan to let him know that Zitao has been downgraded from the ICU to telemetry, and is fully conscious and aware and is now fit for whatever the police department wants to do with him, though through the fuzzy landline phones at work, Yifan can hear Yixing’s non-verbal pleas to just leave Zitao in the hospital for a bit longer to recover. Just because Zitao is conscious and aware does not mean he is healthy. 

 

But conscious and aware is  _ more _ than enough reason for Yifan’s team to visit the hospital, because none of them have seen Zitao recently, if at all, and have no clue how ill Zitao actually is. To them, Zitao has a little head cold, maybe a handful of sexually transmitted diseases, and a nasty case of whatever blood-borne illnesses plague addicts. Nothing too severe. 

 

However, Yifan has  _ seen _ the extent of Zitao’s poor health and knows that this is not a matter of giving the kid a bottle of Nyquil and some ibuprofen, and tries to argue this, but Junmyeon and Sehun are on his ass to get a move on the case, and as a result, Yifan finds himself back in the hospital, in the less-depressing-but-still-miserable telemetry unit. Again, Zitao has been isolated at the end of the hall, presumably so people do not see him as they walk in. They are informed by a nurse that, though telemetry rooms typically house two patients at a time, partitioned by a privacy curtain, poor Zitao has been shoved in the back without a roommate because he has started to experience withdrawal symptoms, and patients with families would rather not have to endure difficult times with a junkie beside them.

 

This mildly distresses Yifan, though he masks it well and carries on his way.

 

“So he’s deadass a prostitute?” Sehun asks, hot on Yifan’s heels as he, Yifan, Junmyeon, and Kyungsoo trail through telemetry, ignoring the wary stares of nurses and hushed gossip of patients and their family members as they speculate why law enforcement is present in such an abundance.

 

Yifan stops when Sehun asks that, halting the whole group in the middle of the hall, and turns to look at Sehun. 

 

“For the love of  _ God _ , don't call him that when we get in there.” Yifan warns. “It’s not something he’s proud of.” 

 

Junmyeon nods, agreeing with the sentiment despite not having seen Zitao in nearly two months. “We’re on his side, and he needs to know that, okay?” He gently reminds Sehun, and Sehun holds his hands up in defense.

 

“Hey, I know that.” The junior investigator claims. “I’ve just never met a prostitute before.”

 

Yifan blanches, and looks at Junmyeon in shock. Not because Sehun has never met a prostitute, but because Sehun is  _ excited _ to meet a prostitute. Yifan is not going to have Sehun inside of Zitao’s room, flailing over calamity like an untrained ape. 

 

“Sehun—,” Junmyeon starts, but Yifan cuts him off. 

 

“He is  _ not _ your sociology project. Don't treat him or  _ any  _ civilian you work with like one.” 

 

Standing quietly off to the side, Kyungsoo clears his throat. 

 

“We’re blocking the hallway.” He kindly points out, and the group splits momentarily to allow a handful of nurses through. 

 

With the commotion passing between them, Yifan realizes that if the whole lot of the team goes into Zitao’s room, Zitao will only cower and grow silent (that is, if he feels well enough to talk at all).

 

“Can we uh,  _ not _ all go in at once?” Yifan offers, wishing he sounded more certain. He fears that Junmyeon will get the wrong idea if Yifan shows too much enthusiasm towards spending his time with a whore.

 

Fortunately, Junmyeon seems to understand where Yifan is taking the suggestion, and nods. “He’s most familiar with you. We’ll wait back in the lobby.” 

 

Sehun groans and rolls his eyes, childish and impatient, but Yifan understands where he is coming from. Even the police department is full of bureaucracy, and Sehun is young and has yet to really understand that even trivial things require a process. 

 

Just as promised, Zitao is awake when Yifan knocks softly on the open door of the hospital room, but  _ aware _ seems to be hyperbole.

 

Zitao’s bed is positioned at somewhat upright angle, but Zitao has his head rolled back against the pillow, a half-eaten jello cup in one hand, and a dull, beige, plastic hospital spoon in the other, both resting on his lap. 

 

Yifan realizes, his heart tickling, that Zitao is watching the balloon sway back and forth. 

 

“Tao?” Yifan calls, surprising himself with the gentleness of his voice, and how he always sounds so sweet with Zitao, though never his  _ real  _ priority. 

 

Zitao’s reactions are delayed, and it takes him a few seconds longer than usual to react, almost as though he has temporarily forgotten his name, but when he does finally lower his gaze from the balloon and meets Yifan with drowsy, drugged up eyes, he seizes. 

 

Yixing had mentioned that they were keeping Zitao on heavy pain killers — the addict’s opioid tolerance is very high — and drip tylenol seems to be the only thing that keeps him from weeping. Unfortunately, it makes him lucid, and reacts like a sedative with suboxone, which they give him to treat withdrawal. 

 

The spoon wiggles between Zitao’s trembling fingers, and he bites his lip, not at all looking pleased to see Yifan; a new development, albeit not a very surprising one. 

 

“Officer Wu…” Zitao rasps out, voice dry and scratchy from a few days of minimal usage. 

 

Truthfully, Yifan’s face is the last face he wants to see right now, second only to Siwon. Zitao had been avoiding Yifan with purpose — shame. 

 

He had been so utterly ashamed of what he had done to Yifan, ashamed over the money he stole, and yet, though Zitao has rehearsed over and over again his explanation and apology as to  _ why _ he had done such a thing, his voice dies in his throat and his memory blurs the instant he sees Yifan, looking so concerned and so disappointed. 

 

Zitao eyes the cuffs on Yifan’s hip warily. Though he is sure Yifan would not try to cuff him, especially with his big, bulky cast, he can vaguely recall how another officer had forced him to the ground and twisted his arms around, and that alone is enough to make Zitao cautious. 

 

“You look better.” Yifan says, though he does not really mean it, because it is not really true. Zitao’s poor health is only emphasized by the hospital bed and IVs, but at the very least his lips are not blue anymore and his cheeks have a bit of color. They are feeding him well. 

 

Zitao does not recognize the insincerity of the comment, and flushes sweetly the color of his jello, and he looks down at his lap to hide his smile. 

 

_ That _ , Yifan wishes Zitao would not do. Zitao has a cute smile when it is not melted by tears and bloody chapped lips as it had been two weeks ago in Yifan’s bed. With love and support, Yifan can see Zitao's potential to be stunning. 

 

“Thank you for the bear. And balloon.” Zitao says quietly, carrying magnitudes of gratitude in every syllable.

 

There is another redeeming quality. 

 

Zitao is woefully sincere, eternally grateful for even the smallest of things. 

 

Yifan offers an awkward hiccup of laughter, and bites his lip. “How’d you know they were from me?” 

 

Zitao hums, and carefully digs his spoon into his jello, an irregular, wiggling piece balancing on his spoon, and places it upside-down in his mouth, the concave curve of the utensil flush against his tongue. He holds the spoon there thoughtfully, and Yifan marvels at how Zitao could make something so mundane as eating gelatin interesting.

 

He stares at Yifan, eyes fuzzy and sleepy, though sad, and smiles like his lips are pulled on a string. 

 

“Who else?” 

 

Yifan’s heart clenches, and he clears his throat of phlegm that is not there. 

 

They become quiet together, Zitao studying his jello, Yifan studying Zitao. 

 

While it is true that Zitao does not look much better, he does not look worse either. Yixing had not given Yifan very much information on Zitao’s illnesses per hippocrates, though there is a clipboard resting silently on Zitao’s end table, beside the bear. 

 

_ Gross Negligence _ , Yifan thinks, hyperbole again. Most hospitals have gone digital, but a hard copy of Zitao’s problems had been made, simply because there is  _ so much _ wrong with him, and Yifan’s curiosity leads him to pick it up. 

 

The clipboard, holding tightly several documents, feels lighter than Yifan had expected, and he glances at Zitao, an exchange of consent crossing between them, though Zitao seems to wilt shamefully. 

 

He  _ hates _ hospitals, and though Dr. Zhang and his favorite nurse, Luna, are very kind and do not pass any judgement upon how he ended up in the hospital, the very reasons why Zitao fears treatment have come true. Zitao has watched several nurses come in and out of the room unbiased, read his chart, and begin to treat him differently. Drug addicts are a waste of their time. Drug addicts are not people. Zitao is not a person worth saving, but they must anyways. 

 

Of course, it was only a matter of time before he got too sick to hop from park benches to motel floors, but a part of Zitao had always assumed he would die before he was brought to a hospital, and he had made peace with his logic. 

 

It is only luck that Zitao cannot see the whiteboard in the nurses’ break room, covered in messy handwriting beside several RN names that reads  _ NO ZITAO, NO ZITAO, NO ZITAO, NO ZITAO _ .

 

Nobody wants to get stuck with Zitao.

 

Zitao studies Yifan as Yifan reads Zitao’s long list of ailments and illnesses. Yifan’s brow twitches, he swallows thickly, sometimes he bites his lip and his fingers curl tight around the board as he flips the pages, but there really is no  _ telling _ reaction from the officer. 

 

Outward appearances are the first that officers learn to control however, so of course Zitao cannot see the way Yifan’s heart sinks into his stomach, and his hands threaten to tremble when he reads Zitao’s chart and sees that Zitao has tested  _ positive  _ for more than he has tested  _ negative _ . 

 

Hepatitis C, Bacterial Endocarditis, Syphilis, Bronchitis, malnutrition, compromised immune system, opioid addiction, opioid tolerance. 

 

There are more, but Yifan wants to respect what is left of Zitao’s privacy.

 

Suddenly, all of Zitao’s problems seem to make a tremendous amount of sense.

 

What Yifan had mistaken for pneumonia is actually a gross combination of intravenously and sexually transmitted illnesses. 

 

_ Wonderful _ . 

 

He realizes that he has gone hard — his face critical and discerning as it always is and never is with Zitao, and the heart-weeping babe has noticed and withered into himself, picking aimlessly at the plastic strings left behind from the lid of his jello cup. 

 

Yifan clears his throat, albeit awkwardly, and sets the board back on the table, suddenly feeling as though he has committed a violating act against Zitao, because  _ now _ he knows what is going on inside of Zitao's body, the destructive forces that are eating him alive and thriving off of his death, and Yifan feels ill. Is he no better than the drunkard that had drugged Zitao only a few days earlier? He is mortified by his own lack of restraint. 

 

“I –,” Yifan stutters. “Sorry.” 

 

Zitao shrugs half-heartedly, and smiles despite it all. “Doesn't matter.” He remarks without scorn. His gaze is still fallen, and Yifan wishes with all his heart that Zitao, with his gaunt face, bruised jaw, and beautiful, bright eyes, would look at him. 

 

Unfortunately, Yifan does not deserve that any more than Zitao deserves to be in a hospital bed. 

 

“Are you taking me back already?” Zitao asks, perverse, childlike wonder creeping into his voice, and Yifan feels filthy being in the same room as him. Zitao is pure beneath it all, whereas Yifan thinks himself to be more rotten the further down he goes.

 

Zitao does not remember what Yifan has done. 

 

And  _ of course _ he does not. Of  _ fucking _ course he does not remember what Yifan had said to him in the parking lot, because he had been strung out and pained. 

 

Yifan searches the room for anything worth looking at, but even amongst his cheap gift shop presents, Zitao is all that really matters. 

 

He is fully expecting Zitao to go into panic mode, but decides to tell him the truth anyways. 

 

“You’re not going to be charged.” Yifan says quietly. 

 

Zitao perks up, though he seems to immediately regret it, and winces back into his pillows, but the grimacing turn of his smile fades.

 

“Really?” He gasps, jello spoon falling onto his lap. “Oh wow — oh  _ wow _ ,” He marvels, this clearly being the best news he has heard in weeks, and Yifan feels crushed. 

 

The officer’s next words feel like bricks tumbling atop feathers. 

 

“You accepted immunity. You’re testifying against Siwon.” 

 

The room freezes from thaw, and Yifan can hear the blood pound in his ears as he watches the turn of Zitao’s mood. 

 

“No, I didn't.” Zitao says slowly, cogs turning in his mind. He did no such thing. He does not remember agreeing to the plea, only telling Yifan he would think about it before running off, because there is no committing treason against Siwon and getting away immune. Snitching on the boss will get him killed.

 

Yifan closes his eyes and exhales softly. “You did.” He meets Zitao’s eyes and watches the trust in them crumble. 

 

_ Nice job.  _

 

“You accepted the deal three days ago, remember?” Yifan tries gently, but the words feel like tar and burn his throat and tongue and the floor as they fall from his lips and force him to recount Zitao’s needle-point pupils and slurred words. 

 

As it dawns on him, Zitao begins to shake, and he vehemently turns his head back and forth, his unbroken hand flying to tug at his hair. 

 

“Three days ago?” He whispers, hushed and frantic to himself, eyes scanning back and forth across the bed, trying to recall, but he does not remember anything from three days ago except for his client kissing him so sweetly with that putrid breath, and tying off his arm with a shoelace. Maybe a cop, too, but not Yifan. This was the cop who broke his arm — he remembers that too. 

 

But then he greys out, remembering cold, remembering the color blue and a bit of purple and  _ so much _ cold, but nothing else. 

 

_ Oh _ ! It returns to him slowly the more he thinks about it. The warmth, the firmness of somebody grabbing him out of the water and holding him tight, bringing him to a place just shallow enough to breathe again, and he remembers being so  _ scared _ because it was not really his fault, he was not supposed to even  _ be  _ with that client, but he had been working so much more because he was trying to get together enough money to pay Yifan back. Yifan’s money saved his life, he had to pay him back. 

 

Yifan. Yifan, Yifan,  _ Yifan _ — Zitao remembers Yifan from three days ago, the hands that hold him above water. He remembers. He remembers, he remembers. He remembers —

 

_ “He can't charge you. You’re immune, remember?”  _

 

Zitao’s heart stops (but actually, it is beating troublingly fast, and his blood pressure is rising as well), and he looks at Yifan, mortified. 

 

“You tricked me?” 

 

_ This _ is a tone from Zitao that Yifan has never heard before — broken, red-hued, trembling  _ anger _ , and Yifan’s usually level-head spins a bit with Zitao’s irrationality. 

 

“I had to mediate the situation —”

 

“You had to mediate your  _ conscience!”  _ Zitao interrupts, raising his voice. 

 

Yifan does not take well to this, not in the slightest, and though he knows he is in the wrong for having manipulated Zitao into agreeing to do something when he clearly was in no state of mind to make decisions for himself, their current position is one that  _ neither _ of them would be in if Zitao would have just agreed to the deal in the first place. 

 

“ _ My  _ conscience?” Yifan’s voice is low, but dangerous and wavering as his threads break. He knows he cannot yell at Zitao no matter how bad he wants to, because he will be marked as  _ emotionally compromised  _ and sent on temporary suspension from work, and now that Zitao is under protection of law, Yifan  _ cannot _ be suspended. 

 

He grabs onto the railing of Zitao’s bed, and tries his best to not let the way Zitao flinches helplessly haunt him. 

 

“You’re joking right now, right? I don't  _ have _ a conscience with you. All I’ve done is help you —” 

 

“I was high! And you knew that, didn’t you? You took advantage of me! There’s a reason why I didn’t agree!” Zitao cries, a wicked hysteria that Yifan had never,  _ ever _ heard in the voice of a person before. It is inhuman, the terrifying trill of Zitao’s voice, like putrid nails scraping harmoniously along the dragging surface of a chalkboard; this is the raw embodiment of all of the fears that Zitao tucks into needles and shoots up his veins. 

 

_ Take it back, take it back, take it back. Undo it all. _

 

Neither of them notice Zitao’s heart monitor, which has been silenced given that Zitao’s heart has been relatively stable for the duration of his visit, begin to peak and plateau drastically high. 

 

Tears fill Zitao’s eyes, and Yifan feels like he has pushed a vase over and is watching it tumble gracelessly through the air, seconds away from shattering. 

 

Zitao’s well-off hand clutches his flimsy blanket, and Yifan’s stomach turns because for the first time, he sees what Yixing was talking about earlier. 

 

In the crook of Zitao’s elbow is a flourishing, deep red flower of bruises, at least five inches long and splotchy, like spilled paint. The skin looks just one shallow scratch away from bursting a pool of rotten blood down Zitao’s arm. Either his vein has collapsed, or this is one of Zitao’s more battered injection sites, and with bile in his throat, Yifan stares at it as Zitao panics.

 

Softening, Yifan pushes aside his personal vendetta against the thieving cherub and looks at Zitao’s face, slouching down over the bed railing, though he does not get any closer. 

 

Zitao is right, though it is a fate Yifan does not want to face. 

 

“You’re right.” Yifan forces himself to say. Bricks tumble to the floor, and Yifan tries to come to grips with what he did and the magnitude of his actions. He had been the only person in Zitao’s life that did not just  _ do things _ without asking. Yifan prides himself on how aware of Zitao’s consent and feelings he has been, and now he has burned that bridge and must rebuild it with waterlogged ashes.

 

Zitao’s tears fall silently, droplets hitting the paper-thin fabric of his hospital blanket.

 

“You’re right,” Yifan says again. “I…” He stutters. God, he does not want to say it. Saying it makes it true. 

 

But it  _ is  _ true. 

 

Yifan sighs.

 

“I took advantage of you. And I’m so sorry.” Yifan tries to soothe but hating the grain of his voice. He could never sound soft and sweet, but he tries to be the smoothest in a rough bunch. He is not clandestine; Zitao still recoils from him.

 

As if Yifan’s heart could sink any lower. 

 

“Zitao,” He starts again, praying that nobody happens to stroll past. “I’m sorry I got upset. I thought I was helping.” 

 

Pride tastes bitter sliding down Yifan’s throat, but the sweetness of Zitao’s trust will soothe the ache. “But I can’t change anything now.” 

 

He kneels lower, uneasy being above Zitao, and squats beside the bed, quite painfully until his shoulders are almost level with the bed railing, and Zitao’s betrodden gaze can meet Yifan’s quite easily, though he doubts it will. 

 

Yifan grasps the rail, palms itching to reach out to Zitao, but he does not — not yet. He knows that from now until forever, he must always be careful with Zitao. 

 

“Can you tell me why you’re so afraid of Siwon?” Yifan requests gently, his voice airy and light and entirely unlike himself, yet wholly himself all the same. 

 

It is impossible for him to be something he is not. 

 

Zitao swallows thickly, choking on his tears, and wipes his eyes with his uninjured hand. Uninjured is a stretch — every single inch of Zitao’s body is riddled with injury and scar, worthless and worn. He contemplates his own limits sometimes, but he knows that he has already reached them, has already crossed a line, and his heart is in necrosis. 

 

It is quite funny how a dying heart can still seize with the life of fear, such a nasty, controlling monster, but Zitao’s does. 

 

Yifan is asking him a question that he most definitely already knows the answer to — but maybe he does not. If Zitao is being forced to testify, it is unlikely that the Department of Justice has any grasp on just how  _ dangerous  _ a man Siwon is. Guns and brawns cannot take down a brain. 

 

It is very quiet, Zitao stewing and Yifan reordering all of his fuck-ups to put this one at the very top of the list. 

 

Really, Yifan wonders of himself, does he have a complex? Must he rip apart everything and destroy all that is even remotely positive? Zitao may not be a ray of sunshine, but what little light he did have, Yifan has robbed entirely. 

 

The battered soul shifts a little in the bed, and hisses softly in pain. 

 

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.” Zitao suddenly says. 

 

Yifan looks at him, trying his absolute hardest to keep his face clear, but his eyes betray all that he cannot and will not say. 

 

_ I just wanted to help. I thought I was helping. I’m sorry.  _

 

“Zitao,” Yifan sighs, voice whinier than he can control. “I didn't realize you were so sca—” 

 

“Get out.” 

 

Yifan’s mouth dries up. 

 

Zitao is full of surprises today. Yifan has never seen him so assertive, never heard him be anything but quiet and passive, yet undeniably intelligent. 

 

Is it so wrong that the officer feels pride swell in his chest despite it all. There is a fight in Zitao yet. 

 

Yifan squeezes the railing once, twice, and nods, face setting hardly. “Okay.” 

 

He wants to say so much more. Zitao deserves to hear so much more from Yifan. Zitao deserves safety and health and friendships built on trust rather than circumstance, but Yifan cannot even give him that much, and feels ashamed. 

 

However, Yifan does not beg, does not plead, does not fight. He leaves Zitao’s room with his tail between his legs, heart aching.

 

In the waiting room, Junmyeon, Sehun, and Kyungsoo chat in hushed voices, but silence stifles them when they see Yifan.

 

Junmyeon is the first to stand, his hand clutching the walkie on his shoulder out of reflex. 

 

The superior officer blanches at the absurd turn in behavior that he observes his second-in-command. Yifan is stoic and impassive, yet now he looks shaken to the core in the most disturbing of ways, and Junmyeon finds himself struck to silence. 

 

“Can we go in?” Junmyeon asks Yifan, lips trembling as the words fall. Sehun and Kyungsoo stand to their feet as well, mentally preparing their scripts; what to say, what not to say, and how to say it in a way that will not frighten Zitao away from grace.

 

The rookie Sehun is anxious and excited to begin his first case without the immediate aid of his superior, Chanyeol. Kyungsoo can sense a mess before it happens, and just wants it all to be over with. 

 

Yifan clears his throat. Who are these people, he wonders? Who are they to exploit Zitao like this? Yifan thinks they should just leave Zitao alone, just walk away — but he knows they should not. He could not abandon Zitao, no matter how he divulges his love and care.

 

The officer shakes his head, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “He’s not feeling well enough.” is all Yifan can bear to say. 

 

Sehun visibly deflates, groaning like a juvenile because he is not yet used to bureaucracy and feels that he has just wasted two hours that he could have spent at home. Kyungsoo does not visibly react, only loosening his tie a bit to show relief, and Junmyeon’s brows bow together in visible concern.

 

Yifan wishes he could be so empathetic. 

 

“Is he at least stable?” Junmyeon asks, his prioritization of civilians perhaps the entire reason why he entered the force to begin with. 

 

Yifan does not want to talk anymore, but he nods. 

 

“Physically, yes. Let’s leave.” 

 

Nobody questions him, but they all know the implications of such a statement, and Junmyeon frowns softly as the other three prepare to exit. He glances over his shoulder in the direction of Zitao’s desolate little room and wonders what he has possibly gotten his team into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now this fic is official caught up with its aff original!! thank you so much for reading, see you soon :)


	7. seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> paper bag hearts

Fourteen hours after shitting out his pride and trying to avoid a nervous breakdown in his bed, Yifan finds himself drumming his fingers impatiently against the dark wood of a meeting table. Sitting amongst him are a handful of veteran and capable officers, and the odd one out, Officer Im. Junmyeon is the leader of the meeting and is briefing all of the other officers about the reopening of the Choi Siwon case.

 

Even if Junmyeon _were_ talking about something new and exciting, Yifan would not be paying attention. His anxiety and paranoia have been flagged too high for him to capture, and all Yifan can think about is a blue cast and wobbly jello.

 

His fingers keep tap, tap, tapping at the tabletop, silent only because his nails are short, and Yifan keeps dream, dream, dreaming about his wicked love bound to a hospital bed.

 

When Junmyeon starts to speak of Zitao more personally, however, Yifan’s fingers come to a hard halt against the wood, and he redirects his gaze intently to his friend. Unofficially, anything pertaining to Zitao is information also pertaining to Yifan.

 

“He’s our one and only lead in the case, so he’s going to need round-the-clock protection.” Junmyeon says, and Yifan already knows where he is going with this, and quite frankly sees little point for the meeting to continue.

 

Zitao is going to need a constant guard, somebody who will remain by his side for twenty-four hours out of the day for an undisclosed amount of time, and there is absolutely no _way_ it is not going to be Yifan. Yifan will not allow anybody else to be so close to Zitao. Nobody else knows Zitao the way Yifan does, and nobody knows how to speak to him and touch him and care for him in a progressive way like Yifan does.

 

(Yifan does not _know_ any of those things. He knows only what he had learned from three days and a snowstorm with Zitao. He knows that Zitao fights in his sleep and goes through books quicker than a whip, but he supposes none of this is relevant. Yifan wants to spend those moments with Zitao again and stretch them into lifetimes.)

 

Despite the obvious — Yifan is going to be Zitao’s assigned guard come Hell or high water — Im Jaebum, the bloody red stain in Yifan’s dreams and the reason why Zitao has a big blue cast on his broken, bony arm, is the first to speak up.

 

“I’ll do it.”

 

Junmyeon blinks in surprise, and Yifan cannot contain himself. He is so offended and disgusted by the idea that he scoffs and laughs humorlessly, eyes stuck on his own fingers.

 

The corner of Yifan’s lip hangs a lifeless simper, and he blatantly ignores the twisted, angry scowl on Jaebum’s face.

 

“That’s not going to happen.” Yifan deadpans, still staring at his fingers. He needs to trim his nails.

 

The other officers in the room observe, but stay quiet, and Junmyeon finds himself stuck between a rock and a hard place.

 

Jaebum’s short temper is going to murder him, and Yifan can practically see the steam boiling in the younger officer’s eyes as he utters, “Why not.”

 

Junmyeon clears his throat, expression hardened in the face of conflict. “Let’s stay professional —”

 

“He’s terrified of you.” Yifan interrupts, ignoring Junmyeon. He can only see fire and feel hatred for Jaebum.

 

It has been Jaebum’s actions that have scarred Zitao so badly, that have broken his bones and made him retreat back into a shell of who Yifan knows with confidence he can be. In his heart, Yifan knows that he has done just as much damage to the fragile cherub, but he is trying so _fucking_ hard to bring justice unto Zitao’s life, trying so _fucking_ hard to keep himself together so he can be the one to care for Zitao.

 

In fact, all Yifan really wants to do is go back to the hospital and apologize again and again to Zitao, he wants to make sure Zitao is not completely alone in his room, with only a cheap bear and slowly deflating balloon, and the cold hands of nurses who are gentle, but do not provide the love and affection that will really heal Zitao’s precious body.

 

Junmyeon agrees.

 

Jaebum is more or less a loose cannon, somebody Junmyeon constantly worries about in the field. The only reason he is in the meeting is due to his seniority. All veteran officers have been assigned passively to the case, with only a select handful to be actively involved in protection, and Junmyeon already knows that Yifan will go down fighting for Zitao.

 

“Whoever we assign to protection will be moving with Zitao to a safe house a little over an hour away. They’ll spend every single moment protecting him.” Junmyeon explains, as though this will change Jaebum’s mind.

 

“I’m going to do it.” Yifan suddenly says, impatient and tired of the useless banter. It is obvious that Yifan is the only person qualified to be in such close quarters with Zitao until the trial reaches an end. He wants to go to the hospital, and this is only wasting his time.

 

“I’m the only one who is acquainted with Zitao — he’s my lead, he’ll be my responsibility.”

 

It is quite difficult to argue with Yifan, especially when his stubborn mind has already been made up, and Jaebum only stares, biting the inside of his cheek and narrowing his eyes. If looks could kill, bless Yifan’s soul.

 

“I think that’s probably the best for right now,” investigator Chanyeol agrees. “Officer Wu is, at the very least, on friendly terms with Zitao.”

 

Yifan bites the inside of his cheek to keep his words back. Perhaps a week ago, he was on _friendly_ terms with Zitao, but to say such a thing now would definitely be a stretch. The rest of the team doesn’t need to know that, though. Yifan will fix things with Zitao quickly, hopefully before the night’s end, because he cannot suffer through another night of tossing and turning in an empty bed when his heart is heavy and lonely.

 

Yifan and Jaebum turn to Junmyeon, looking at the superior like two school children who have just gotten into a fight, and are waiting for the teacher to decide who is going to be punished for starting it.

 

Junmyeon simply looks exhausted, but ponders anyway.

 

“I agree,” He finally says, tossing his hands up in defeat. “Officer Wu has the most experience with Zitao, and Zitao probably would be more comfortable being around somebody who _hasn’t_ —” a pointed stare at Jaebum. “— broken one of his bones.”

 

Yifan smiles beside himself, reserved and undetectable, and feels sweet relief course over him as he settles back into his chair. He knows that spending so much time with Zitao is dangerous, if not because they will be hiding from Siwon, then because they will not be able to hide from their feelings, but Yifan has no fear, not when it comes to Zitao. He only feels the pressing, unshakable urge to protect and redeem. Zitao, of all people, does not deserve to live a life of abuse and fear, and hopefully, _hopefully_ , Yifan will be able to rescue him from it all.

 

Hopefully.

  
  
  


Zitao isn’t eating.

 

Yifan is both infuriated and concerned, because Zitao had eaten like a man dying two weeks earlier, and now, upon arriving at the hospital to inform Zitao of the upcoming changes to be happening in his life (and apologize for losing his temper a day earlier), Yifan has been ushered away by Yixing and told that the whore’s abysmal approach to food has added yet another issue to his long list of ailments.

 

_Anorexia (Diagnosis Pending)_

 

The officer wants to hit a wall when Yixing tells him this, because what is a little physical damage compared to what Yifan has already gone through mentally with this kid? If Yifan can barely handle supporting Zitao without buckling, he aches for the heaviness that must be drowning Zitao’s tender heart.

 

“We have a therapist coming in to talk to him later.” Yixing says, adjusting his coat and silencing his pager.

 

Yifan shakes his head. “That’s not going to work. He isn’t going to talk to anybody.”

 

The doctor agrees with a dejected nod. “It’s protocol. He won’t talk to any of us, so I doubt he’ll say anything to a shrink either.”

 

At this, Yifan laughs, humorlessly and hysterically, and shakes his head even more, carding his fingers through his hair, and looks at Yixing with worn circles tracing under his eyes. Yixing wonders if it is normal for Yifan to be so concerned and invested with the well-being of somebody under his watch. The officer seems dangerously close to crossing personal and professional boundaries.

 

“Do you know what he’s going to do when you send a therapist to his room?”

 

Yixing swallows dryly and shakes his head. Even if he had an answer, he wouldn’t have offered it, too curious to observe Yifan while he has the chance.

 

“He’s going to think _we_ think he’s crazy.”

 

Yixing sees the point in Yifan’s concern, he really does, but he can’t choose to ignore one of what is most likely many mental illnesses that Zitao is battling, regardless of how Zitao may perceive the offered help.

 

“ _I_ _think_ he’s not in the right mind to be making judgements and decisions, and a therapist may help him think a little bit clearer.” Yixing is calm despite it all, voice sweet and unwavering, yet it does little for Yifan.

 

“That’s not — he won’t —” Yifan stutters, rolling his eyes and groaning in frustration, before gesturing to Zitao’s room. “Can I talk to him first? I know how to talk to him.”

 

Yixing disagrees, shaking his head. “You can, but I don’t think you know him the way you think you do. You know his heartbeat _skyrocketed_ when you went in there last time?”

 

Yifan blanches, and his heart throbs. There are a wide array of reasons as to why Zitao’s heart would do such a thing, but Yixing’s discerning stare makes Yifan think they are not positive.

 

“And his blood pressure shot up too — and it really _can’t_ be doing that kind of shit. He could have a seizure. He could stroke out. You need to be careful when you talk to him. I don’t care how unreasonable he’s being,” Yixing grows firmer, and he jabs a finger into Yifan’s chest.

 

_“He’s_ the one in the hospital bed, _he’s_ the one with the pain and the injuries, _he’s_ the one who feels like the world has given up on him.”

 

The officer stiffens, feeling heat in his veins.

 

“I know that!” Yifan snaps, jerking away from Yixing. “I didn’t mean to upset him the other day — I did something to protect him and he took it the wrong way.”

 

Yixing frowns, eyes narrowing, and turns his pager down. It has been vibrating and pinging obsessively for the duration of their chat but the red URGENT blinker has not flashed, so he is not too hurried.

 

Still, Yixing prepares to leave, finding it best to bite his tongue.

 

“Whatever you say.” He’s unabashedly dismissive, and knows it will infuriate Yifan, but he doesn’t care. “Anyways, he’s awake. Doing better. I think he could still benefit from a few days stay, but it isn’t _imperative_ or anything.”

 

(Honestly, Yifan thinks Zitao would benefit from a few more days in the hospital, too.)

 

Yixing finishes, “I’ll authorize his discharge when I _know_ he consents to release to a safehouse and will have proper care there until the trial is complete. If he doesn’t consent, we’ll just have to explore other options for him.”

 

Yifan rolls his eyes and swallows down the biting truth that Zitao does not _have_ any other options, and they both know it. He hopes Yixing will not be this difficult with him during the actual trial. They all have Zitao’s best interests in mind, but none of them seem to care too much for each other’s motivations for willingly participating in such a shit show.

 

“Yeah, yeah. He’ll be fine as long as I’m with him.” Yifan defends, turning down towards Zitao’s room at the end of the hall.

 

Yixing has his doubts.

  


. . . .

  


If Zitao is bothered by Yifan’s presence, he certainly does not show it when Yifan peeks his head in the door.

 

It seems as though Zitao cannot help but brighten up when somebody, no matter who they may be, enters his lonely little room. He is still all by himself, with no plans to receive a roommate (though he has asked the nurses nearly every time they come in to check on him), and with no friends or family,  Zitao doesn’t expect visitors. Only his nurses and Dr. Zhang come into his room, and the nurses, with the exception of a very kind Luna, never seem to engage in Zitao’s attempts at conversation.

 

He tells himself that they are just being professional when they give him tight lipped smiles and pinch suboxone beneath his tongue. They are just _professional_ , and certainly not disgusted by him.

 

Yifan admits to himself that he is anxious upon entering Zitao’s room. Yesterday went poorly, and Yifan’s robotic defense mechanisms only served to complicate things between them. He hopes Zitao does not completely hate him, though he wouldn’t be surprised either.

 

“Hey,” Yifan greets, voice cracking on the syllable just as his knuckles crack on the wood of the open door to Zitao’s room, knocking only to be cordial.

 

Zitao looks up at him with that unflinching brightness in his eyes. Light reflects spectacularly in his gaze, and Yifan is sure nobody else has eyes or a spirit like Zitao.

 

Despite the surprising lack of hatred, lack of lingering animosity and fury from how their last meeting transpired, Zitao is clearly still guarded, shielding himself from Yifan in a way that he previously had never — and with due reason. Yifan had violated his trust, even after Zitao had shown clear vehemence towards the whole idea. Yifan, who Zitao thought would never do such a thing.

 

Ground zero looks abysmal. Yifan hopes they can rebuild.

 

Rebuilding starts with clearing the disaster zone, and Yifan clears his throat and takes Zitao’s placid silence but discerning gaze as permission to come inside, and the cop stumbles through the room to a sad, worn green chair beside Zitao’s bed. It looks unused since Zitao has been admitted. The balloon Yifan had gotten Zitao earlier is gone, probably having deflated under the depressing atmosphere, but the smiling little bear is tucked cozily against the railing of Zitao’s bed, half under the blanket.

 

Yifan could swoon and he could cry, and wonders if that means Zitao has been sleeping with the soft toy.

 

“Can I sit?” Yifan asks, gesturing absently to the chair, which the broken doll in bed stares at, nodding shortly.

 

Yifan and Zitao sit in silence for ten minutes, and Yifan counts every single second as he studies Zitao, glancing not even at his watch. He doesn’t dare take his eyes from Zitao, worried that the ghost will disappear.

 

The hospital is still treating him well, though the blue cast on his arm still looks exceptionally heavy hanging off of the prostitute’s emaciated frame. Color is returning back to Zitao’s face and body, skin no longer the same dull shade of grey as the frame of the hospital bed, but Yifan can see where Zitao’s lack of appetite is taking a toll on his healing. He still looks so thin, so breakable, so in need of protection and care, and Yifan’s heart aches. He knows the Yixing and the nurses are gentle with Zitao’s body, but routine caution will not heal Zitao’s heart the same as genuine tenderness.

 

Yifan really, _really_ just wants to help. Something about Zitao compels Yifan into proactivity, makes Yifan remember the pipe dreams he had as a child, the idealization of police officers as these helpful, wonderful heroes. If Yifan does not save a single soul again, but somehow manages to salvage Zitao’s, he will be content. He will forever be content.

 

Yifan’s eyes find patterns on the battered babe’s face. The bruises on his jaw still look awful, but they aren’t as painfully swollen. If the blossoming, burst blues, purples, and faint greens were anywhere but on Zitao’s skin, they would be very beautiful colors.

 

If Yifan could associate any color with Zitao, it would be blue in any and all shades. Blue like the brightness on his cast, blue like the churning, knotted bruises on his arms and legs, like the dark, terrific indigo that hollows around his eyes, circles that may be bruises, or may be extreme fatigue.

 

But Zitao is blue like the soft undertones of periwinkle, blue like spun sugar, blue like all of the layers of the sky as the sun sets.

 

Zitao is blue, and Yifan is cold.  

 

Despite wearing his uniform and all of its many layers, Yifan is frigid, goosebumps making him tremble, born from anxiety and worry in his stomach.

 

How he hopes Zitao doesn’t hate him.

 

Deciding the inconclusive nature of the silence that surrounds them to be truly unbearable, Yifan rubs his hands together and tries to phrase his words carefully.

 

Yixing was right. Yifan doesn’t know Zitao as well as he initially thought, and the absolute _last_ thing Yifan wants is for Zitao to be afraid of him or associate him with stress and worry.

 

Voice raspy, Yifan croaks, “I-I just want to help you.”

 

_Fuck_ , he thinks. If there was ever a more inopportune moment for his voice to betray him and reveal the trembling wreck of emotions that he is inside.

 

Zitao keeps his eyes down, though Yifan notices the boy nervously fiddling with the fingers that poke out from his blue cast.

 

Yifan fears Zitao is shutting him out, and that _cannot_ happen. He just wants to help, God — why is Zitao being so difficult?

 

“You,” Yifan begins, pausing for a moment to lean on the edge of the rickety old chair. It’s legs scrape against the hospital tile.

 

“You know that I want to help you, right?” There’s a desperation creeping into the officer’s voice, rearing its ugly head far sooner than Yifan had anticipated.

 

Zitao is intuitive and sympathetic, probably far too much so for his own good, and he picks at his cuticles, feeling tears burn along his lower lash line. He keeps his head down in the hope that Yifan cannot see them.

 

Zitao knows Yifan is trying to help. He knows that Yifan is trying to pull him out of a terrible situation and maybe lead him into something wonderful, or at least as wonderful as a life as pathetic as Zitao’s own could possibly recover into. Zitao knows that Yifan, beneath the navy and kevlar, has a heart so golden that Yifan himself does not know what to do with it, and Zitao knows that he is being perceived foolish and irrational and ungrateful towards the officer. Yifan has done more for Zitao than _anybody_ has, and Zitao’s lungs feel crushed when he thinks about how ungrateful Yifan must think him to be.

 

The little babe’s head bobs subtly, so quietly that Yifan would have missed it if he were not so infatuated with Zitao.

 

Zitao knows Yifan just wants to help.

 

For some reason, this doesn’t soothe Yifan’s soul the way the thought it would. He feels torn apart by how passionately he wants to protect Zitao, how badly he just wants to scoop his cotton candy love into his arms and run away with him, somewhere kind and new where they can be themselves and have no burdens tied to their ankles, but Yifan knows he won’t be satisfied with just running away. He won’t be satisfied unless Siwon is behind bars, drowning in the miserable water that Zitao is fighting to swim out of.

 

Silence has always been somewhat of a comfortable companion between them. Silence has fallen shrouded in glory when Zitao is in the back of Yifan’s cruiser, silence has been amicable when Yifan and Zitao sit and stare at each other in interrogation rooms, silence has even been sweet and telling between them, when they shared Yifan’s bed on those frigid blizzard nights.

 

Yifan would give everything to be back in that snowed-in, safe and silent bubble from nearly three weeks ago.

 

Silence now is a menace between them, gnawing away at both of their insecurities and decisions, drawing them apart where it had previously brought them together so well.

 

Frustration arises in Yifan where he knows he should quell it — now is neither the time nor the place for him to grow so upset, but he cannot help it. He is pushing and pushing and _pushing_ uphill, and Zitao keeps tripping him and bringing him back down.

 

“You know what,” Yifan starts, patting his knees with his hands and sighing, “This clearly isn’t working.”

 

The defeat in his tone means something to Zitao, something more than compassion, and the bed-bound babe looks up suddenly, eyes wide and wet, and his lip trembles.

 

“No,” Zitao whimpers, voice tiny and pathetic, and he hates how he sounds like a kitten when all he wants to be is a lion. _He’s giving up on me._

 

The tears that bud like crystals along Zitao’s lower lashline make Yifan’s heart ache and his fingers twitch to wipe them away, but he cannot. If this isn’t going to work — and it quite obviously is not — Yifan cannot let himself grow any more attached, even if it means ripping his heart out by the root.

 

Yifan shrugs, clasping his hands together between his knees and looks at Zitao.

 

“You’ve got to help me out.” There’s a dejected flatness in Yifan’s voice, and he wonders if it is a poor show of his character to already be at the breaking point with Zitao. “I don’t know what’s wrong — You have to _talk_ to me, Zitao.”

 

A sniffle — Yifan knows Zitao is about to cry, and God, how he wants to just hold him and keep all of the evils that torment him at bay. But now is not the time. Not yet.

 

If anybody deserves to break down and lash out, it is Zitao, having his liberties stripped and humanity dissolved by needles, but Zitao is soft spoken, quiet so others will listen.

 

Keeping his eyes drawn down in shame, Zitao counts the little pills of fabric that ball up on his beige hospital blanket. It is worn and rough from being washed too many times, and the color is dull and dirty. He wonders if Yifan still has those pretty, soft white sheets and that pretty, soft white comforter, or if the officer had tossed them after having a whore in his bed.

 

Zitao would’ve tossed them.

 

Words come to Zitao’s tongue and rest there in jumbles, forming sentences that get swallowed, and with his free arm, Zitao picks at some of the pills on his blanket, swallowing thickly another sentence. How he wishes he were as eloquent and calm with words as Yifan, who has years of training and experience speaking in difficult situations. Zitao only has years of being silent in difficult situations.

 

Finally, Zitao thinks he can speak, and thinks he might have something to say.

 

“I just,” He pauses, throat closing up and eyes welling until his lash line is cold and his vision is blurred.

 

_Be honest_ , Zitao tells himself. Be honest and be brave. Two things he can never seem to do.

 

Zitao tries to swallow another sentence, but chokes, and it comes back up as tears spill over his lashes and tumble down his cheeks, silent and unaffected.

 

“I don’t want anything bad to happen.”

 

Yifan’s heart cannot break any more. He cannot take it — can’t take the helplessness in Zitao’s voice, the way anxiety fills each words, and Yifan’s lips quiver, he feels like he has been burned with something so white hot that he is cold, and his skin pricks up.

 

Mind void of all training, void of bureaucracy and the _‘right’_ way to approach situations like this, Yifan leaves the sad chair in favor of kneeling beside Zitao’s bed, eyes wide, and he grasps the railing.

 

Yifan has wiped his whole script dry.

 

Yixing was right. Yifan has _no idea_ what he is doing with Zitao.

 

The sweet angel in the hospital bed is made of delicate, cracked porcelain, and even the stitches in his skin cannot keep him from breaking, and Zitao’s chest heaves with another cry, and _oh_ , how Yifan hates that cry.

 

Zitao’s tears could bring a city to a crumble, and Yifan falls to his knees at Zitao’s bedside, hands again gripping the railing, though not as tight or angrily as they had just the day before. Suddenly that seems like a lifetime ago, all of the animosity in Yifan’s heart melted into something bittersweet but warm to the touch.

 

“Don’t cry,” Yifan consoles, his voice again so sweet and tender, the affection that Zitao normally responds so positively to, but this time it only seems to make things worse, and Zitao’s breath trembles with his quiet tears.

 

“Zitao,” He says softly, blood pounding in his ears.

 

“Look at me.” He requests. He pleads.

 

“Please look at me.”

 

It seems to take a tremendous amount of effort on the worn soul’s part, but braver than he has ever been, Zitao looks at Yifan, and is surprised to see the watery passion in the man’s eyes.

 

Could it be that this is not only his burden? Does his pain hurt Yifan too? Is it shared? Zitao pouts, trying to keep his tears at bay.

 

“Please,” Yifan begs. He wants to touch Zitao, wants to hold him, but is worried that Zitao may lash out or recoil. Does love scream when it is held? Yifan doesn’t know, and doesn’t want to find out.

 

He gestures to Zitao’s good hand, the one that isn’t nearly immobile from a cast, eyes never once leaving the babe’s.

 

“Can I?” Yifan asks, and to his pleasure, Zitao nods minutely, giving Yifan permission to hold his hand.

 

When their fingers touch, Yifan holding Zitao’s bony palm, Zitao realizes how cold are the hands that help him compared to Yifan’s. The nurses are detached, and though Yixing is gentle with his touch, his gloves deprive Zitao of the contact that he has missed so much, a creature of affection. Yifan touches him like no other, with serenity in his palms and wisdom in the lines of his hands, and Zitao thinks he could trust Yifan with his entire body one day.

 

“Have I ever, _ever_ let anything bad happen to you?” Yifan knows that this may be a stretch, but his voice weeps in was that his eyes will not, and he squeezes Zitao’s hand ever-so-gently.

 

Yifan has always done everything in his power to keep Zitao safe, has never let anything bad happen to Zitao if he could stop it. All of the nights he has taken Zitao out of the cold and into the station for the night, citing minute charges and losing the paperwork just hours after processing and releasing his love back into the wild, hoping and praying Zitao would eventually come back to him, all of the times Yifan has brought food of notably better quality than standard to Zitao’s cell, watching and feigning disinterest at the color that flooded back into Zitao’s cheeks as he ate. Yifan has only ever wanted the best for Zitao.

 

Bringing Zitao into his home, feeding him and dressing him and caring for him, wishing that maybe Zitao would stay this time, only to have his fairy love whisked away in the night by demons. Even a few days earlier, when Zitao had been arrested and assaulted by Officer Im, Yifan had come quickly to stop anything else from happening, to take Zitao to a place of security, and now Yifan offers him safety and the possibility of freedom.

 

Yifan truly _has_ never let anything bad happen to Zitao.

 

Again, Yifan gives the darling’s bony hand a slight squeeze, just enough to garner his attention and remind Zitao that there is love and support waiting to sustain him.

 

“Will you let me protect you?” Yifan asks. Contrary to _how_ they ended up in this position, Zitao _does_ have a choice. Yifan is giving him a choice — Yifan would give his life to give Zitao a lifetime of choice, and he prays that Zitao will choose to allow himself to be cared for and cleared.

 

Zitao does not answer, though in his heart he already has. Truly, Zitao fears the unknown more than he fears unfavorable things happening to him. Unfavorable things always happen to him, and he has since grown used to his self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

To continue as he is now — working for Siwon, diligently paying of his debts and striving to be normal once more — is the smoothest road, the safest path. To betray Siwon and work with the police forks in the middle, and though Yifan may only see one outcome, Zitao sees two.

 

If it all goes perfectly, if the trial happens in a timely manner and all of the evidence is clear as day and they are presented with a wonderfully unbiased jury, Siwon will only see the sun through a window in a cell, clawing tallies into brick as Zitao eases back into normalcy.

 

To Yifan, this is the only end. The street is one way. Justice will be served and Zitao and all of the other poor souls trapped in a contract with the devil will be freed.

 

But for Zitao, even the slightest chance that something will go wrong — there is a mistrial, the evidence is mishandled, the jury is loaded, Siwon walks — Zitao’s life will fall apart. Siwon will torture him, have him murdered slowly and arduously by the streets, until they swallow his bones and he isn’t even a _memory_ anymore.

 

The chances that the dice will roll so against Zitao are low, but the fact that the chance is _there_ is enough to make Zitao seize with apprehension.

 

Yet Yifan is right.

 

He has never let anything bad happen to Zitao. Even if Siwon walks, Yifan will keep him safe.

 

Swallowing thickly, Zitao tries to blink away his tears.

 

Yifan can protect him.

 

Yifan _will_ protect him — and Zitao will let him.

 

Though the question is nearly forgotten, Zitao nods stiffly, and feels as though he is passing his tarnished paper heart into the hands of a scribe. Yifan will keep it safe, make something beautiful out of it.

 

The passing over of trust is both a weight upon the officer’s shoulders and a weight lifted. Lifted, because now he knows his duty, his responsibility to Zitao — and yet those very responsibilities are heavy, and he knows that they are both making a commitment that might blow up in their faces should they fail to diffuse the situation.

 

Still, Yifan feels his heart settle into a sweet, tender place. He feels placid and calm, despite the obstacles that face them as soon as Zitao is discharged.

 

As he would hold thin porcelain, Yifan brings Zitao’s hand to his lips, kissing softly atop the bandages there. It is chivalrous — but inappropriate. Intimate where it should be professional, but Yifan doesn’t care, and Zitao appreciates the affection. He favors compassion.

 

“Thank you. I _promise_ I’ll keep you safe.” Every word is swollen and thick with sincerity, carrying more meaning than anything Yifan has ever said to anybody before. He will devote his life to Zitao, and though he feels at home and comfortable with doing so, it frightens him how quickly and irrationally his feelings have grasped him.

 

_No_ , he thinks.

 

Feelings are not irrational. Empathy no weakness.

 

Zitao is at a loss for words, struggling to keep from weeping in his uncertainty as anxiety creeps up his spine.

 

Yifan doesn’t see it — doesn’t pick up on it, because he doesn’t know Zitao that well yet. He cannot tell the difference between Zitao’s always downcast, wet eyes, and panic-stricken tears, so he gives Zitao’s hand another squeezes, and places it gently back on the battered blanket.

 

“Rest, okay?” The officer stands, poised to leave. He brushes sediment from the ground off of the knees of his navy slacks. “I’ll visit again tomorrow.”

 

Zitao doesn’t respond. He stares at his hand, blinking furiously, lips feeling feverish and hot. He’s going to sob when Yifan leaves. He’s going to cry and weep and wail until the nurses come in to sedate his hysterics.

 

He can’t help it.

 

He’s just so, _so_ scared.

 

He fears he has just agreed to die.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't like this chapter. but yifan needed a come-to-jesus meeting. the next one will be more eventful. see you soon :)


End file.
